


Gravitation

by northernexposure



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, F/M, Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 03:49:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 39,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20203228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northernexposure/pseuds/northernexposure
Summary: So, this woman walks into a bar… J/C darkness set five years afterVoyager's return to the Alpha Quadrant, ignoring the relaunch books.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written back in 2015. I had a lot of fun with this one, not least because beyond the first scene I had literally no idea where it was going when I started it. Beta'd by MissyHissy3, of course.

I see her before she sees me.

Don't ask me why I choose that moment to look up. There isn't any real reason for it. In this sector, at this trading post, not being noticed is somewhat essential to one's continued good health. When a door opens and you're crouched over a drink, as I am at the moment, you don't look up. You just do a quick mental check of where your weapons are on your person. Just in case. Then you carry on about your business because no one else's is any of yours.

But still.

I look up.

She stands in the doorway, black as sin. It isn't just the boots and leathers but her face and hair, too – her cheeks and forehead are streaked with grime, her hair dyed black. She looks as unlike herself as I have ever seen, and I have seen her in – _almost _– every way you can imagine.

I shouldn't be able to recognise her so easily. I shouldn't be able to feel her, not this far across this stinking targ pit of a bar, not this far removed from… all of it. But I can. How else to explain why I look up? How else to explain how I recognise her when her own mother would struggle to pick her out in that get-up, in this place?

Not that it means anything. As her eyes begin to scan the bar I turn back to my drink. Whatever she's here for, it isn't me, and it has nothing to do with me. It's been a long, long time since anything in her life has intersected with any aspect of mine. I have no reason or desire to alter the status quo now.

It's been five years since I've seen Kathryn Janeway. And now, of all the gin joints, in all the space docks, in all the universe, she walks into mine.

Getting home changed everything, not because of us, but because of them. The Dominion War had warped the Federation, turned Starfleet so defensive that they had forgotten the difference between security and fear. _Voyager _had been trapped in a bubble, and when she reached home that bubble burst. We'd been waiting for it to happen – praying for it to happen – but when it did, we weren't prepared for the world we found beyond. We – or one of us, at least - had spent seven years imagining that getting home would instantly make everything right. Instead, it merely shattered any illusion that somehow, somewhere, there was still a normality for us to return to. I should have blown that damn copy of her up the moment she showed up on our viewscreen, old and grey-haired and bitter and not a fraction – _not a fraction_ – of the woman I once knew.

The debriefings were difficult to begin with, and then impossible. They degenerated into de facto court martials, though no one ever told us what we were accused of or gave us the opportunity to form a defence. How could they, when there was no clear line of attack? It shook her – iron core or no – I saw it, the incremental deaths that went on behind her eyes every time she sat in on another little 'chat' with one of the rest of us. If we had it hard, I could just imagine what they'd put her through (and I had to, because hers, as Captain, were firmly closed), just as easily as I could imagine her putting up with it, finding a way through it. She'd come through worse and after all – what else did she have? What was she going to do, give up? Admit that what she had struggled for every day of those seven years – what had kept her rising in the mornings, what had kept her sane – was now taking her and the crew she cared about apart, piece by piece?

I never was as strong as her, or at least not in the ways she cared about. Not for the_ things_ she cared about. I'd joined her crew for the sake of my own, after all, not out of any renewed sense of loyalty to the 'Fleet. Now my people – and once again that's what they were, however much she tried to protect them, _my_ people - were in a tough spot. I had put them there. It was my responsibility to get them out.

So we went. Slipping past Starfleet security isn't so difficult, especially, I discovered, when there is a sympathetic Admiral's son in the equation. It's why I didn't even ask B'Elanna if she and Miral wanted to join us. She was a Paris now, and safer where she was.

My final debriefing was on the last day that I ever stood on Earth. I had decided that after that day I'd be gone, whatever the outcome. She sat as she always did when she attended these gatherings, stiffly, her hands in her lap, her face impassive. Sometimes I thought she was looking at me, but other times I could have sworn she was not looking at anything at all.

That was five years ago, and that was the last time I saw Kathryn Janeway.

Until now.

I figure I'll stay where I am and nurse my drink until she drops out of sight, then I'll up and leave, go back to the ship and have Ayala move us on. Of course I'm curious about what she's doing here – the last time I'd seen her was at Starfleet HQ, in uniform, neatly coiffed and every inch the admiral she'd always been destined to become. How she comes to be here, on a trading post on the outer reaches of the last curling frond of a galaxy that I can't even pronounce, let alone spell, is beyond me. But it isn't my problem._ She_ isn't my problem. Whatever it is that's brought her here, it clearly falls into the 'somebody else's business' category, which means my best bet is to let it slide past and join all the other imponderables that characterise the substance of my relationship with Kathryn-_fucking_-Janeway.

I stare down at the undulating amber surface of my drink for a moment before lifting it and taking a heavy slug, right in the back of the throat. As I put the glass back down, I hear a voice next to me.

Correction. It isn't so much a voice as gravel scraping the thick dregs of an empty fuel tank in the cadence of words. I haven't heard that sound for half a decade, except in the dreams that I resolutely tell myself are so occasional as to be non-existent.

She's no longer on the other side of the room. She's standing beside me, leaning over the bar, her black-clad breasts pressing against the residual stickiness left by glasses just like the one I have my hand clenched around. A slice of black hair slides down towards the viscid bar as she converses with the barkeep. She's asking for someone by name, a name I don't recognise. He points into a dark corner and she nods, then orders a drink before leaning back again.

I should have walked away while she was talking, but for some reason that I can't fathom I didn't and now it's too late. She casts a glance in my direction, and my god she covers it well, but I see it.

A split-second freeze-frame, blue eyes locked on my face.

A minute later her drink appears in front of her and I see the shock she can't conceal emanating from the white-hard grip of her fingers on the glass.

Then she's gone. I'm not, after all, the person she's looking for.

I drain my glass and slam it on the bar, tossing down the strips of latinum I owe as I stand, with a little extra because with a face as recognisable as mine, it's a good idea to grease the wheels in anticipation of those times that you want to be professionally forgotten. The barkeep nods at me, I nod back – pleasantries exchanged, deal done. Time to go, before the black hole that has suddenly reappeared in my life manages to catch me in its event horizon.

I don't even make it half way to the door before it happens – the low rumblings that spell the beginning of a fracas, the first raised voices, the sound of chairs being scraped back.

_Not your business,_ I tell myself. _Don't look. Don't-_

I look. Kathryn has a phaser pistol levelled at some guy's head, another pointed at the four men who had stood as she'd interrupted whatever it was they had been doing. The guy she's there for is still seated, his hands raised. She looks to have everything under control. And yet…

I see the fifth guy. He's behind her, no way she can clock him. He has his hands on the back of a chair that I know is going to fell her in the next ten seconds. I glance around, wondering where her back up is. Because she has to have back up. Whatever she's doing here must be something to do with Starfleet, and Starfleet don't send four-star admirals under cover to dives like this without making damn sure they have back up.

_Not your business,_ _Chakotay._ _Not your problem._

It really isn't my problem. _She_ really isn't my problem. _She should never have been my problem_.

And yet, by the time I see the guy lift the chair, I already have the disruptor in my hand. I've fired before he even has a chance to swing it.

Janeway takes a jump-step back at the sound of his death scream, twisting her head to look over her shoulder. I'm already half way to her side, fuming to myself, angry, so angry, but going to help her anyway.

What else am I going to do?

[TBC]


	2. Chapter 2

Two against four – not impossible odds and we've both been up against worse. I could call Ayala but decide against it. I have a hunch that by the time he'd reach us it'd be all over anyway and better that someone be ready to fire up the skiff. I have no idea what, exactly, Janeway thought she was trying to do when she stuck a gun in someone's face in front of so many witnesses, but if I'm going to intervene – as I apparently already have - it seems likely I'll need a quick getaway. I wade in there, disruptor set high and aimed low, grab her by the scruff of the neck and drag her backwards until we stand side by side, our three weapons facing off against their four. At least, four is how many I _see_.

The thing people don't tell you about bringing a knife to a gunfight is that sometimes it's a good idea. Certainly doesn't work out too badly for the guys that form the hornet's nest she's decided to kick tonight. I don't know who fires first after my initial disruptor shot but within seconds the air between us is alight and the rest of the bar's patrons are diving for the door or the floor, whichever is nearer. I know I fell at least one of the men. The next thing I see beyond the fumes of our brief battle is the silvery flicker of a transporter beam. It grips the rest of them just a second after something shoots out of the smoke.

Beside me I hear Kathryn grunt, a little sigh of what I take to be exasperation as her quarry escapes. She takes a step forward and I think she's trying to stop them. Then the step becomes a lurch and she's on her knees, pulling at something in her ribs. A flash of bloody silver comes away with her fingers and a short blade clatters to the floor, only for her to crumple forwards after it no more than a second later.

I haven't seen this woman in five years. Now here she is bleeding to death right in front of me, on the filthy floor of a nameless bar in a forgotten part of the universe, where the name _Kathryn Janeway_ means nothing at all to anyone but me.

Suddenly, against all my better judgement, she definitely is my problem.

_This _is why you don't look up.

I swear, keeping the disruptor raised as I dive forward and drag her up, wrapping my free arm around her so that the hand of that arm clamps over the wound. I can feel her blood pumping between my fingers. "Where's your communicator?" I hiss, "_Where is it_? Or deploy your emergency beacon – do it now!"

Eyes already rolling, she shakes her head, but whether that's supposed to tell me she doesn't have either – impossible – or that she's just being her usual pig-headed 'Must complete the mission at all costs' self I don't know and don't have time to find out. I back us out of the room, the last of her strength going to the arm spread across my shoulders and to her legs, which are giving out fast. We leave a trail of scarlet as we go, bright spatters that are the only paint job that bar has seen in a good long while.

We get out of there with nobody making a move. Maybe the five guys we fronted off against haven't brought anyone else with them, or maybe they haven't paid whatever cronies they have in the crowd enough to stick around after they left. I back down the hall, Janeway's weight dragging on me. I can feel her getting weaker with every step. My ship is two levels down and we're never going to make it. Or rather, I might make it, but I'll be arriving at the airlock with a corpse. What passes for a medical bay on this floating bucket is even further away, and I learned long ago that you only go there willingly if you're dead.

"Where's your ship?" I ask her through gritted teeth, trying to hold her upright. "Dammit, Kathryn, you must have people here. Where are they? You're not going to make it if you don't-"

She blacks out completely, her head lolling forward on her chest, her legs losing all their strength, pulling her centre of gravity too low. It's called a dead weight for a reason, and if you've never tried lifting one, I suggest you continue to avoid it.

I stow the disruptor and pull out my communicator instead, thumbing the controls as I hug her close, muscles screaming at me that I am far, far too old for this. "Ayala. Emergency transport. Two to beam in."

"Chakotay? I don't think we've got the power-"

"_Find_ the fucking power. Do it _now_."

I swap the communicator for the disruptor again. It seems like hours after I've cut transmission that I feel the grate and tingle of our often unreliable transporter. Knowing Ayala, though, it's less than 30 seconds later that he managed to do what he didn't think he could.

We materialise in the galley – in a ship this small you use whatever space you can, so the galley doubles for – well, everything that doesn't take place in either our two small bunk rooms or the cockpit. Ayala is already making his way toward me from the controls as I start sweeping everything off the narrow table.

"What the-"

"Help me get her up!"

He hoists her legs and I lift her shoulders, crashing her none-too-gently onto the surface where I ate dinner not four hours before.

"Fuck," says Ayala, as he sees her paper-white face. "That can't be-"

"Where's the tissue regenerator?" I snap, tearing at the fastenings of her leather jacket while clumsily still trying to keep one hand pressed over the wound. Underneath she wears a black vest, saturated now with her blood. I drag it up and out of the way as Ayala reappears at my side, holding out what I've asked for. It's not Starfleet issue, it's a Trill device, and it isn't the latest model; hasn't been the latest model in several years, but it's all we have.

I place my hand on her ribs, thumb and forefinger surrounding the slash in her side. She's losing so much blood so fast that there has to be a cut artery in there somewhere. Taking a deep breath I pull the edges of the wound open to look as deep within as I dare. There it is, pulsing as it spurts another fountain of hot fluid up and over my fingers. I press the regenerator against the two tattered edges of the artery and turn it up to its maximum frequency. I can't see whether it's working or not, but the flow of blood slows. I keep the regenerator going for another few seconds and then squeeze the edges of the cut together and use a lower setting to seal the outer wound, too. If the blade has punctured her lung, or if she's just lost too much blood, or if it's nicked another of her vital organs, we're done for.

The flesh seals slowly, knitting together until there's just the blood and my hand left on her skin. She still feels warm to the touch. I watch her face and throat – she isn't wheezing, there's no sign of blood on her lips. If she's got internal bleeding, it isn't going to drown her. Doesn't mean she's out of the woods. I lift my hand from her skin, the blood that's been caught beneath it leaving a print of my fingers and palm on her body that somehow makes her look far too small.

"Let's get out of here," I say.

"All right. Any particular place we're headed?"

"Just put some space between us and the station. There are going to be… questions."

"You're telling me," says Ayala. "Care to explain any of this?"

I look at him. "She needed help."

"She asked for yours?"

"No."

"Well," says Ayala. "Then I guess some things really do never change." He disappears back into the cockpit without another word. A moment later the drive powers up - one engine only. I don't need to ask where he found the power for our emergency transport.

A moment later Janeway stutters an inhalation as she comes around.

"_Cha…ko…tay…"_

She rasps my name weakly, with her eyes still shut. At the sound of it a fresh burst of fury sparks in my gut.

Fury. Yes. That's what it is.

[TBC]


	3. Chapter 3

I am well aware I am not the kind of woman that anyone would describe as 'easy to know'.

Some people (I saw a paper by a Starfleet psychologist last year that name-checked me in a study of the effects of deep space exploration) link my propensity to be taciturn to my experiences as the captain of _Voyager_, but that is a trite and incorrect assessment. It's just the way I am. I like company well enough, especially in small doses – Tom Paris can vouch for that. But this ability to go off on my own, this proclivity for self-sufficiency - that's just in my genes. I was like that even as a child, preferring study to play, the inside of my head standing in for an expanse of stars that I dreamed about crossing even then. The inside of my head is a safe place. Except on those occasions when it isn't.

My self-sufficiency is not often seen as a good thing. My mother, for example, thinks I have more colleagues than friends. When I list the names of people I believe I am close to – and I readily admit that the list is not a long one - she points out that two of the names right at the top belong to a Vulcan and a former Borg. I suppose I can see what she's getting at.

If things had been different, though… If _I_ had been different, out there in the Delta Quadrant, I wonder if we would have ever reached home at all. If had done what others wanted me to – if I had softened myself, mixed more, been less of a captain and more of something else… If I had been able to do that, had been the sort of person for whom_ that_ would be more natural than shutting myself off… If I had been more like-

"_Cha…ko…tay…"_

I come around rasping a breath that sounds like the name of a man I haven't seen for five years and staring up at a ceiling I don't recognise. I have no idea where I am or how I got here – the last thing I remember is a blur that begins with me walking into a bar with a perfectly clear objective and ends with me pulling a gun on someone who I'd been assured would be alone and amenable to the discussion I had planned to have. Somewhere in the middle of all that is a face that goes with the name echoing in my head, a face I never expected and had no particular desire to see again. My ribs feel tight. There's an ache inside my torso that isn't going to go away. My head is pounding but far more important than this is the fact that _I don't know where I am_-

I try to move but the pain makes me jerky. Whatever I'm lying on is cold and hard.

"Don't," says a voice. "Don't move. You're alive but I don't know what internal injuries you have."

I blink, looking for him, and realise that my sight isn't as clear as I thought it was a second ago. The edges of my vision are swimming. The figure moves in the frayed shadows that could be in my head but could equally just be because the space around me is small, cluttered and poorly lit.

"I'm fine." I try to get up again. My voice sounds hoarse, and for me that's saying something.

A pause, and then something like a laugh, although it doesn't sound particularly joyful. "Of course you are."

He goes to a cabinet in the wall, pulls out a box or a tin or something. Goes somewhere else and flicks a switch. Takes something out of another cupboard, fiddles around.

I lied. I'm not fine. I don't think I'm dying, but I'm not fine. I lie back down and shut my eyes. I'm cold, shivering. Shock? Lifting one hand I run it down my chest and realise my jacket is open and my midriff is bare. My vest is wet and sticky – I bring my hand back up to my face and it's covered with congealing blood. The pain I'm in begins to make more sense. I try to lever myself up again, making it to one elbow before feeling as if I might pass out.

"Here." The owner of the voice is back at my side. I smell something, scent and heat wafting towards me. It's coffee. "And eat this." Something in his other hand.

Coffee I'd take any time, but right now… "I'm not hungry."

The ghost from my past is still holding out whatever it is. "Eat it anyway. You lost a hell of a lot of blood. It'll help."

Coffee first, then a nibble on something that feels like a dry cookie. It crumbles in my mouth, mostly sweet.

"Shortbread," he says. "The 24th century equivalent of hard tack. Cheap, high-energy and it keeps better than most ration packs."

He's right. The rush of energy to my bloodstream stabilises my vision, which presents me with a conundrum I'm not sure I want to even try to process.

Chakotay.

Chakotay is standing not four feet away from me.

I push myself up a little more, still clutching the coffee as I stuff the rest of the biscuit in my mouth and try to ignore the pulsing pain. We watch each other and I am willing to bet that he sees the same wariness in my eyes that I see in his. He's older, leaner. He's lost the soft edges he developed in our last years on that ship. It makes me wonder what sort of life he lives now, that make the words 'soft' and '_Voyager_' belong in the same sentence. I glance around and then down at myself. I'm lying on what looks like a galley table. On my torso is a clear handprint, delineated in drying blood. It looks like a brand.

"Where am I?"

"On my ship."

I put the coffee down and move my legs so I'm sitting on the edge of the table. "Thank you. For –" I wave in the vague direction of my midriff, unsure of where, exactly, the wound that he must have patched had been. "I have to go."

He raises an eyebrow, crinkling his tattoo. "Go where? We're not in space dock. "

"What? Where are we?"

Chakotay shrugs. "Somewhere their security officers can't get to us easily."

"But-" I look along the galley and up the step into what must be the cockpit of an extremely small craft. Through the viewscreen I can see stars whipping by – impulse speed, not warp. "Turn around. Take us back. _Now_!"

His face is drawn in steel. "I think you'll find that you stopped being able to give me orders a _long_ time ago."

I raise a hand to my neck and pinch at the nerve there. Something flickers across his face, a flash of recognition. Then it's gone. "Give me the mission transmission codes and I'll contact Starfleet. We can arrange a rendezvous. Get you back to them."

I almost laugh. _Starfleet._ Yes, wouldn't that be nice, to step out of this world and straight back into that one?

"There are no mission codes. I have to get back to that station, make my contact." Anxiety flashes through my heart, making my head throb even more. I drop to my feet, willing my legs to hold. "How long have we been gone? If you turn around now, I can still make it."

"Forget it."

"You don't even have to dock, just get close enough to beam me in!"

"We blew an engine the last time we used the transporter – which was, incidentally, just to get you out of there. _Forget it_."

"But-"

The world around me shifts. Nausea rises in my gut and suddenly I'm slipping out of consciousness again. I turn and cling to the table, the metal edges pressing into my palms like blunt knives. I can feel my knees buckling, but I refuse to go down. I let them sink as far as it takes to rest my forehead on the table where it is cooling rapidly as the heat of my body dissipates from its surface. _Breathe,_ I tell myself. _Just breathe…_

It takes a minute or so before I'm sure I can move without keeling over. I straighten up and turn, still leaning against the table for support. He's watching me, arms crossed. He hasn't moved an inch.

"We're not going back," he says again. "If you like we can find a transport going there that'll be willing to give you passage, but I wouldn't recommend it. The manner in which you arrived – and left, for that matter – was not exactly inconspicuous. So you'd better come up with another place that we can leave you."

I take this in for a few minutes, running calculations and outcomes in my head. Whatever way I look at it, the results are bad. I've failed.

"The Kralis sector," I say eventually.

"That's where you want to go?"

_Want is a strong word_. "Yes."

He nods. "All right. We'll work it out. Until then…" Chakotay's gaze drifts from my face to my hair and then down along the line of my open jacket to the imprint of his hand in my blood. "There's a sonic shower in back. Use my room – it's the one on the left. If you think you can make it without passing out."

I look down at myself, wondering if there's any point in showering. It's not as if I have a change of clothes. But the blood is drying, pulling my skin tight. I can smell it, a convolution of metallic and organic that I have always found repugnant.

"Thank you." He uncrosses his arms and heads for the cockpit. "You aren't going to ask what I'm doing here?"

Chakotay stops and looks back. "No. I don't want to know. Not my problem. Understand?"

I nod, and he leaves. I make my way aft. It's not hard to find my way – beyond the galley there's just a narrow space forming a corridor between two tiny rooms. Chakotay's is as neat as I would expect, although perhaps it's just that he owns very little. I peel off my jacket, then my pants, then my vest, then my underwear. I cram myself into the tiny oblong of space and activate the shower, watching as the sonic waves flake the dye from my hair.

I wonder whether I should tell Chakotay what's waiting for me in the Kralis system, even though he doesn't want to know.

[TBC]


	4. Chapter 4

I slide into the co-pilot's seat, the anger and adrenaline of the past hour beginning to fade, leaving me merely washed out and tired. Ayala's eyes are on me. I ignore him, checking our heading and speed. Then I take a long look at the read-outs from our busted engine. Then I check the position of the Kralis sector. After I've done all that, his eyes are still on me.

"What?" I ask, eventually.

"She going to be all right back there?" he asks. "Didn't seem too steady on her feet."

"She'll manage. She always does."

Out of the corner of my eye I see him nod. "And you really don't want to know what's going on with her?"

"No. Can we make it?"

He shifts in his seat. "To the Kralis sector and back to our drop off before the client's deadline? Yeah, shouldn't be a problem. Assuming…" he trails off.

I look at him. "Assuming what?"

"Assuming we just dump her out the airlock and turn tail right back again."

"It's all we're offering, and she's lucky to get that. Who knows how long it'd take her to find passage otherwise."

He's still looking at me. It's beginning to be irritating.

"_What_?"

"You really think you can do it?"

"Do what?"

"Just – leave her there? To do whatever it is she's trying to do?"

"Why wouldn't I be able to? She asked to go there. She _wants _to go there."

"Looks like she wanted to be back on that station, too, and that didn't help her much."

"It's not our problem."

"And yet, here she is, on our ship, and as far as I can make out you just risked your life to save hers. So excuse me if I can't quite believe we're going to patch this woman up after a very close brush with violent death and send her back out there without at least asking what the hell it is that she's got herself mixed up in. I can't imagine you doing that with _any _woman, let alone Kathryn Janeway."

I slam my hand down on the edge of the control panel with a resounding crack. I'm about to ask him what, exactly, he means by that, but then I think better of it. I stand up instead, heading back out of the cockpit.

"Where are you going?"

I keep walking, kicking through the bits and pieces I'd scattered to turn our galley table into a temporary operating theatre.

"So I'll set a heading for the Kralis sector then shall I?" he shouts, over the ringing of a metal dish that connects with my boot before rolling across the deck.

I don't bother gracing that with an answer either.

I head towards my cabin, pausing to rip one of my t-shirts from the makeshift line Ayala and I have strung up to dry our washing, because it's occurred to me that however few I have, Janeway is currently in even greater need. I assume she'll still be in the shower and intend to just leave it on my bunk for when she gets out. I'm still fuzzy around the edges from the adrenaline loss and pissed at Ayala – hell, I'm pissed at the vagaries of the Universe in general - so much so that I don't register that the shower's not running when I push open the door.

Kathryn's standing with her back to me, buttoning the flies of her leather pants. She's otherwise naked, and across the pale skin of her back I can see a pattern of old bruises, their healing colours opalescent in the harsh white shine from the light strip overhead. She freezes at my intrusion, crossing her arms over her chest and turning her head to look at me over her shoulder so that I see her face in profile. The light glances off her nose and cheekbones, blinding me to her expression.

I take a step forward and drop the shirt in my hand onto my bunk beside her pile of bloodstained clothes.

"Thought you could use a change," I say. "Sorry, but I don't think my pants will do you any good."

There's a pause, and then, "Thank you."

I should back out there and then, leave her to it, but apparently tonight I don't seem to be capable of making sensible decisions. Besides, I can't take my eyes from the bare expanse of her back and the bruises that have painted her skin in colours that have no right to be there.

"Breathing all right?"

There's another pause. In it she reaches out and picks up my shirt, still keeping her back to me but allowing her arms to drop. She pulls the garment over her head and as she moves the briefest flash of nipple glows in the cabin's light. It's a sight that I choose to tell myself I am entirely indifferent to.

"Breathing's fine," she says, turning to face me. Her hair is back to its normal colour. In the plain grey cloth of my shirt, baggy though it is, she looks far more like the woman I remember. "Thanks to you. You saved my life, and I know it was against your better judgement." She looks away, gaze dropping to the deck between us as she reaches up to pinch her neck in a gesture I hadn't thought about for five years but have now seen twice in less than 30 minutes. In that brief moment Kathryn Janeway seems tired and very alone.

Suddenly I'm casting around, trying to reignite my earlier fury, because I know from bitter, _bitter_ experience that letting myself feel anything else around this woman is a massive mistake. It's a fine line between love and hate and I crossed from one to the other with her long ago, but after tonight I'm not stupid enough to think I'm not still lingering in the borderlands. I _want_ to hate her. It's what she deserves. She doesn't need me. She's never needed anyone. I was just the dumb sap whose conscience made him help her this time. _Every_ time. _If it hadn't been me, someone else would have done it,_ I tell myself. She'll get over this hiccup and continue steamrolling her way towards whatever goal it is she's set herself this time.

But I've never seen her bruised like that. Despite everything we went through in the Delta Quadrant I've never had her blood pumping through my fingers in such quantities before. Suddenly I feel an urge to explain myself.

"It's tough out here. It took us a long time to build a life for ourselves, and it may be a small life but its ours." I tell her. "We get by, but we just as easily might not. One wrong move and it could all be gone. I've got deadlines. Clients. Responsibilities."

She looks up at me again. "I know."

"I can't get caught up in – whatever it is. I can't do that to Ayala, not again." I whisk my finger around us, indicating the ship that's both our home and our livelihood. "This is all we've got, and it took us long enough to get it."

"I understand."

"We've got time to take you all the way to the Kralis system. It'll take a good twelve hours, so you can rest on the way. We'll contact anyone you need us to contact. We'll give you whatever supplies we can spare. But that's it. That's all I can do. Once we're there, we part ways."

Janeway doesn't say anything. She's still watching my face, and I realise that she's taking a long look at my tattoo.

"I never expected to see you again," she murmurs. "It sounds strange, but I'd forgotten your tattoo."

It takes me a minute to speak and then the only thing I can think to say is, "Funny how blind you get to something you see every day. Isn't it?" It sounds bitter, even to me, but it covers the other thing, the unwelcome, unexpected shadow of whatever it was I felt at the moment I lifted my head and saw her standing in the doorway of that bar.

Her eyes flash to mine, still startlingly blue after all this time. What a cold colour it can be.

"I'm not expecting you to help me any more than you already have, Chakotay, and frankly what you've done is far more than I would ever expect from anyone," she says, her rough voice back to its full strength. "I'm in your debt. But then, that's nothing new, is it? Not as far as you're concerned."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I lost track of what you haven't forgiven me for a long time ago," she says. "I'd done that even before you disappeared. All I knew was that you thought I owed you something. Maybe you're right. But you know what, Chakotay? It's impossible to repay a debt to someone who walks out and vanishes without a trace. Without a _word_."

"Certainly is if you don't even bother to look for them once they're gone."

She throws her hands up, anger animating her into a familiar posture of exasperation. "Oh, is _that _it? That's what you were expecting? That I'd drop everything and coming _looking _for you?"

"Of course not. You think I wanted that? After-"

"After _what_?" she says, her voice vicious.

She's breathing hard, her chest rising and falling inside my t-shirt, rubbing the nipple that I am definitely never going to think about again over fabric that I have worn against my own body. In two steps I could hook my fingers underneath the hem. I could run the backs of them over her skin, right up to the swell of her naked breast. I could brush my thumb over-

"It's Seven. Isn't it?"

I stare at her, an icy tide drowning the ragged shores of my unexpected desire. She always did know how to turn me cold.

"That's what you can't forgive me for. You think she told me what you were planning and that you'd asked her to go with you. You think I persuaded her not to. But I didn't. She didn't tell me. If she had- " Kathryn breaks off.

"If she had, what?" I ask, into the ensuing silence. "You want me to believe that you would have told her to come with us?"

Kathryn laughs, and it's a bitter sound. "I wish I had. I wish she'd given me the chance. I wish_ you_ had trusted me enough to give me that chance. I wish I'd known–" She stops suddenly and puts her hands up to her face, and they're shaking. "She's dying, Chakotay. They're killing her, and _it's my fault_."

She doesn't say anything else after that. She just keeps her hands over her face, as if she's barely holding herself together and is too tired to hide it any more than that.

I still don't want to know, and it's still not my problem.

Except, of course, that I do, and it is.

[TBC]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did not know that line about Seven was coming until I typed it. Didn't even know she was going to make a showing in this fic at all. Glad she did though, cos who only knows what the plot would have been otherwise.


	5. Chapter 5

I regret the words as soon as they're out of my mouth. He's going to assume I'm trying to manipulate him, and I'm not. I had no idea he was on that space station and if I had I'd have avoided him like the proverbial plague. This meeting isn't calculated. I'm not trying to drag him into anything – it's not as if I can. What I have to do I have to do alone. But that's what he's going to think, to add to the catalogue of other errors that he is right to lay at my feet. Yet I'm so tired of second-guessing everything – especially myself – that it just slips out. The words sound bald and plaintive on my tongue.

_She's dying. They're killing her and it's my fault._

Inevitably, silence follows. I'm not usually a coward but right now I can't bring myself to look at his face. I'm so sick of anger, of guilt, of hate. Just for a moment I don't want to see it on his face, especially not directed at me, as I know it will be. Even if I do deserve it. Even if everything he thinks of me is true.

Eventually he says, "Take the time you need. Then come to the cockpit and we'll talk. After that you eat, and then you take my bunk. I'll sleep in the galley."

When I drop my hands from my face the door is closing behind him.

I take a seat on his bunk and rest my hands on my knees, staring at nothing. He can't know it, but his t-shirt is the softest, cleanest thing I've worn for weeks. I wonder if he'll let me keep it though I don't have anything to pay him with. Then again, I can't pay him for the unexpected run to the Kralis sector, either. Everything I had with me is still stashed in an unmarked locker aboard that space station, and I may as well have tossed it out an airlock for all the good it can do me now. I suppose my best bet is that Chakotay is so desperate to shake me out of his hair that he'll count the expenses incurred as cheap at half the price. Judging by our encounter so far that's not at all a forlorn hope.

I look at my jacket and consider putting it on over the shirt, but think better of it. Another few moments and I'm as ready as I'll ever be.

The cockpit is so small that there's no room for a third person anywhere but on the step that leads to it from the galley. As I appear in the doorway, Ayala checks our heading and then stands with a smile that is reserved but still manages to be warm. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but somehow it's a relief.

"Ma'am."

"It's Kathryn or Janeway, Ayala," I tell him. "Nothing else."

He half-shrugs and then steps past me, saying, "Take a seat. I've a hunch you need it more than I do."

Chakotay is studying a starchart as Ayala disappears into the galley. I sit down, scanning the controls in front of me. This little ship makes Neelix's old boat look like a luxury spaceliner. Ayala reappears a few minutes later, handing out fresh mugs of coffee. From the galley I can smell something else too – something savoury, as if food is being prepared. Just the aroma is enough to make my stomach growl. I haven't eaten for at least a day. I can't remember the last time I ate something hot. I manage a smile of thanks as Ayala hunkers down on the step.

"There's a Starfleet quarantine marker on the Kralis sector," Chakotay says, flatly, looking up at last.

"Not on all of it," I tell him. "There's a planet about two parsecs outside the quarantine border that's not under lockdown. I can give you the coordinates."

He watches me for a second as I take a mouthful of coffee, his dark eyes searching mine as if trying to read a truth although I haven't yet told him a lie.

"What's on this planet?"

"A trading post."

"Is there someone waiting for you there?"

"No. There should have been. But no, now there won't be."

"So why are you still going?"

I think it best not to answer that and take another mouthful of coffee instead. The caffeine is flooding my bloodstream, an artificial burst of energy that pushes the exhaustion to the edges of my consciousness.

"Are you going inside the quarantine zone? Is that it? Why? What's inside it?"

I stare out at the zip and fizz of the passing stars. "For someone who didn't want to know anything about why I was here, you're asking a lot of questions."

Chakotay tosses the chart onto the control panel and scrubs a hand through his hair in frustration. "You casually drop the bombshell that you did back there and think there's any way that I can't?"

An unsteady flutter disturbs my heart as I kick myself for my earlier weakness. I need them to get me to that trading post, but I can't have them decide to hang around. I've forgotten the calibre of the man who's seated beside me. His conscience couldn't let me die, no matter how much he hates me. Bringing Seven into the equation – how could I think he'd just let that go?

"You were right the first time. It's better that you don't. Anyway, as you said – you've got places you need to be. Drop me at the trading post and go on your way. That's all I need. I've got it under control, Chakotay."

He stares at me. "Really? The same way you had it under control back there in that bar?"

I don't have an answer for that, either.

"You cross a Starfleet quarantine border and they'll shoot you on sight," he tells me, as if I hadn't spoken at all and as if I don't know that already anyway. "They won't even stop to ask why you're there."

"It's a good thing you're not going anywhere near it then, isn't it?"

Chakotay rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "Tell me about Seven."

Suddenly the caffeine isn't enough. Exhaustion washes through me. I can't think of anything I can say that will put him off, so I say nothing.

"Tell me," he says again

I shake my head. "Chakotay – you were right. You don't want to know. You _can't_ know."

"_Tell me_."

I watch him for a moment. He finally turns to me and I nod, slowly, trying to work out where to begin.

"Have you ever heard of Section 31?"

Chakotay and Ayala trade glances, and then Chakotay says, "The Federation's secret service."

I shrug. "Close enough."

"Section 31 has Seven?"

I scrub my nail against the sparse pattern on the mug I'm holding between both hands, the well of guilt in my chest churning. I'm trying to work out how much to tell them, because they have to be able to deny that they know anything at all. Just in case.

"After you left-"

Chakotay shifts in his chair, and I realise I've already put a foot wrong. That sounded accusatory and who knows, maybe I meant it to, so I carry on despite his discomfort.

"After the Maquis left, Starfleet put the rest of the _Voyager_ crew under even more scrutiny. They thought we had helped you get away, and they thought the fact that you had run meant there must be something you were trying to hide. The Borg members of our contingent were particularly vulnerable… as you might imagine." I swallow more coffee just as a distraction, really, barely tasting it at all. "Starfleet have no way of knowing whether what we did to the Borg - infecting them with the pathogen – has worked. They want defences they can build themselves, defences they can be confident they can rely on. I thought… I thought if they cooperated, Starfleet would see that the former Borg aboard _Voyager_ are no threat. They wanted Seven to submit herself for testing – they wanted samples of her nanoprobes, independent to the ones we'd taken as part of her medical work up on the ship…" I trail off. "She didn't want to do it. I talked her into it. _It's just a sample or two, _I told her_. You're giving them voluntarily. They won't take anything you don't want them to…_" I trail off, my throat constricting as the memory of my stupidity threatens to overwhelm me.

"Let me guess," Chakotay says, his voice soft amid the hum and whir of the ship's controls. "It wasn't just a sample. And they took more than she wanted to give."

I swallow and nod. "At first they just asked for more. Three times they called her in. Every time I persuaded her to let them take what they wanted," I say, rubbing my fingers into my eyes, the shame and guilt a hot, heavy lump in my gut. "I wasn't entirely naïve – it was getting to the point when I was going to call a halt to it. I was arrogant. I thought that if the great Admiral Janeway stood up and said, 'That's it. That's enough…'" I shake my head. "Then she just… disappeared. The Doctor called me to say he'd been expecting her to come by his rooms at Starfleet Medical once she was done with her appointment elsewhere in the building, and that she hadn't. I contacted the team who were supposed to be working with her: they said she had never arrived."

"Bullshit," Ayala interjects. "Seven of Nine not keep an appointment? Fat chance."

"A day went by, then another – she never returned to her apartment. I started asking more questions, and then more. I didn't believe that she hadn't arrived that day. There were witnesses who had seen her on the campus. Besides, whatever her reservations about donating her nanoprobes, she trusted-" my voice breaks, just slightly, a tremor brought on by another flash of guilt. I clear my throat and go on. "She trusted me. She trusted my judgement, and I had told her everything was fine. She'd told them she was going to be there, so she would have been there. So I kept investigating. Then doors started closing in my face. I was an _Admiral_, for god's sake, and I started being told that the questions I was asking had answers that were classified. I pushed harder. I demanded, and I wouldn't be silenced. And that's when I first learned about Section 31. So I started asking more questions, this time about Section 31. That didn't go down well. I was called into HQ. First it was suggested that I take leave – after all, I must be stressed. I deserved a rest. I declined. So they put me before a disciplinary panel. I was known, you see. Not just in Starfleet, but thanks to _Voyager_'s exploits, everywhere. When I spoke, Starfleet might not listen, but plenty of others – outsiders – did. I was letting the side down. But I didn't stop. I was getting somewhere. Gathering information; leads."

I turn slightly and look out at the stars again, recounting the next part with a mechanical precision that conceals anything I might feel about the substance of it.

"Then I had a visit. He turned up in my bedroom one night. I have plenty of security at my place but he'd walked through every single trigger as if they weren't there at all. He was very polite. When I expressed the opinion that he should leave, he was very… persuasive. I was to forget about Seven of Nine, that she was neither my, nor Starfleet's, responsibility any longer. I was a Starfleet Admiral, for god's sake, in my own home, and in that moment I was made to understand that the power I thought I had meant nothing at all. I was made to realise that this was a final warning and it was the only one I was going to get. So the next morning I took that leave of absence, and I left. I knew by then that wherever Seven was, I wasn't going to find her on Earth, or while I was in a Starfleet uniform." I turn back to the two men watching me. "It's doubtful, whatever happens, that I will ever go back."

There is a lot more to tell, but they knew everything they needed to. Anything else was too dangerous, too sensitive, too compromising – both for them and for me.

Chakotay is staring at me, his eyes even darker than usual, his lips set in a tight line.

It's Ayala's voice that breaks the tense silence. "I hate to say this," he says, softly. "But how do you know that Seven isn't dead already?"

For some reason I can't break Chakotay's gaze. It takes me a few moments to work out how to answer without giving away too much of what else I know.

"You'll just have to believe me here - I know. But there's a deadline, and after that…"

Chakotay's still holding my gaze, watching me with unnerving intensity. I feel as if he's studying my every action, every twitch of every muscle, every slight dilation of my pupils. He's holding himself back from something. From me, perhaps. From launching himself out of that seat and undoing the good he did when he saved my life.

"Your bruises," he says, suddenly, his voice a whip-crack slicing through the quiet cabin. "The bruises on your back. That night – is that-" He doesn't finish the sentence.

I blink at him, for a moment trying to work out how he knows about _them_ before remembering how he'd walked in on me earlier.

"Like I said, he was very persuasive." His question, his breaking of the silence, suddenly has me speaking my guilt. I don't owe the apology I've been carrying around for weeks to him, I owe it to her, but Seven's out of my reach and even if things work out the way I've got them planned, I'll never have the chance to tell her. And he wanted her to go with him. _He asked her to go with him_, and if she had, _if only she had_, none of this would ever have happened, and the reason she didn't, unwitting on my part or not, was me. Everything about this – all of it – what they're doing with Seven, what they're planning - it's all because of _me_.

"Chakotay. I am _sorry_. I'm sorry that out of some stupid sense of loyalty to me Seven didn't go with you. I wish she had. God, how I wish she had. I will never, never forgive myself for what has happened to her – for _letting_ this happen, for _helping _them-" I feel my voice about to crack and stop short before it can. "I can set this right. I can stop this. I can save her. I just need to get to the Kralis sector."

Chakotay stands before I've even finished speaking, pushing roughly past Ayala and out of the cockpit as if he just can't bear to be in the same room as me any longer. I hear his boots ringing on the galley deck and then a door shuts, closing out any sound from beyond it, and I assume he's gone to his cabin. I feel sick, my heart burning, my eyes swimming so that when Ayala moves to take Chakotay's seat, I have to turn away in case he sees.

[TBC]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first statement of this chapter was pretty much me thinking 'Oh crap, _now_ what do I do?' Fun times.


	6. Chapter 6

The problem with this ship is that it's so small there's nowhere to run. I have to get out of the cockpit, but once I do the only place I can go is my cabin. I shut the door behind me and lean back hard against it, trying to calm my erratic breathing. There's too much to process. There's too much to take in, and I couldn't carry on sitting there, just looking at her, listening to the words coming out of her mouth, seeing the hideous truth of it all play out across her face and knowing that I wasn't there. _I wasn't there_.

I cross to my bunk and sit, heavily. There's a small pile of something I don't recognise on the floor by the foot of the bed and it takes me a second to work out what it is. Then I realise that the stack is formed of Janeway's bloodied, filthy clothes. They're only fit for the incinerator, and yet she's folded them neatly – square corners, lapels front - the way a cadet would in Academy digs. My mind forms an image of her performing this task and the care of it – the _precision_ with which she creases a fold in that blood-crusted vest makes me want to punch a hole in the bulkhead. Because after everything she's been through, after everything she's experienced in these past weeks, her first instinct still takes her straight back to Starfleet.

I rub both hands over my face, nausea riding guilt hard in my gut. There's so much churning around in my head that I don't even know where to start. _Section 31 has Seven_. In the Maquis I learned enough to not just loathe but fear them, and my fear at this moment exists on several levels – for Seven herself more than anything, but also for what they might be planning to do with the technology in her body. The thing with weapons of defence is that they're only weapons of defence if you're the ones with your finger on the trigger, and to bastardise Plato, the guys who really, really want the guns are precisely the guys you really, really _don't_ want to have the guns. I'm no fool and I've watched Kathryn Janeway's face enough times to know when she's hiding something. She was truthful in everything she said, but she was leaving plenty out, and it's the gaps that really worry me.

The problem with being able to read Kathryn like a book is that I also know – with a certainty so absolute it leaves me cold for more reasons than I can face right now - that she was telling the truth when she said Seven's decision not to leave with us was not down to her.

Which isn't what Seven told me. Or at least, it's not how I chose to interpret what Seven told me, which is even worse.

And right now there are greater things to worry about – right now, what did or didn't happen between us five years ago has no bearing on anything of importance at all, and yet I can't just slough it away. I can't just carry on as if it makes no difference because it _does_ make a difference. It makes all the difference in the Universe.

There's a knock on the door and Ayala pushes it open and steps inside. He hesitates for a second, and then quietly closes the door behind him.

"She really needs to sleep."

"Has she eaten?"

"Yeah. She says she's happy to crash in the galley. I don't think she wants to take your bunk."

I stand up. "Want to or not, she takes it."

Ayala nods, and I can tell he has something else on his mind.

"Spit it out, Mike."

My old friend gives me a serious look, his hand still on the doorhandle, as if he wants to be sure he can make a quick getaway should the occasion call for it.

"Look," he begins. "I don't know what happened between you two, and frankly I don't want to know. But hell, man – she needs a friend now. Don't you think?"

I put my hands on my hips. "I know."

"I always thought-" he pulls himself up.

"What?"

Ayala shakes his head. "Did you never tell her?"

I look at him carefully, trying to work out what he's talking about. "Tell her what?"

"That we were getting out?"

I flick my gaze to the door behind his head.

"You didn't, did you? So – after everything we went through together… after everything she tried to do for us – you didn't even say goodbye? You asked Seven to join us, but it never occurred to you to talk to _Janeway_?"

"I thought there was a chance that Seven was at risk. Janeway was an Admiral, she was safer where she was, same as B'Elanna. Besides, you think she would have come? Left her beloved Starfleet to join a bunch of wanted runaways?"

"Of course she wouldn't have, but what difference would that have made? You don't think she had a right to know? You don't think she would have _wanted_ to know? Fuck. Chakotay, I would never pretend to know her as well as you do - did - but even I know she would have tried to help us anyway she could, Admiral or not. Didn't you trust her, is that it?"

_No, that wasn't it. That wasn't it at all._

"Until about an hour ago, I thought she did know. I thought Seven had told her."

"You still should have told her yourself. Didn't you owe her that much?"

_Yes, I did. But I couldn't. After everything, there I was, still lingering in the borderlands._

Ayala shook his head. "And _you're _the one who's angry?"

I've had enough of this lecture. He doesn't know the half of it and I'm not inclined to explain myself. "Have we still got a dermal regenerator somewhere?"

Ayala shrugs. "Think so."

"Find it, would you?"

He stares at me another second, and then opens the door. We head out and I see that Janeway's on the galley couch, already half asleep.

"Hey," I say, leaning over her. "Come on. Take my cabin. If you try to sleep here you'll have Ayala and me walking back and forth, disturbing you."

She unfolds herself, gets slowly to her feet. I hold out a hand to help her and she stares at it as if I'm offering her a package that could be a concealed bomb. As she makes her way to my door, Ayala holds out the dermal regenerator. I take it without looking at him. Once we're inside the cabin she turns to look at me, wondering why I've followed her.

"Let me take care of those bruises on your back."

She frowns. "They don't hurt any more. A few more days and they'll be gone anyway. It's fine."

"I don't care if they hurt. They shouldn't be there."

She's too tired to argue, although I can see the _What do you care?_ lurking in her eyes. I'm glad she didn't ask that question aloud, because the truth is that I can't answer it. It makes no sense to waste whatever power's left in the dermal regenerator on bruises that will be soon be gone of their own accord. But I've always been a man for whom symbols are important. And those bruises symbolise a betrayal of loyalty so great that I can't put it into words, demonstrated by an act of abuse I can't fathom. I can't do anything about what happened to her that night or what could be happening to Seven right now, but the idea that the last vestiges of it should be permitted to linger even a second longer than it is in my power to prevent is unthinkable.

"Mind if I lie down?" Kathryn asks.

"Take the shirt off before you do."

She turns her back to me and lifts the t-shirt over her head before lying with her face on my pillow. I light the prayer candle I keep beside my bed and flick off the overhead light so that the room glows a soft orange rather than white. The bruising looks worse in the dim light as I lean over her. I activate the dermal regenerator but before I move it over her skin, I rest my palm flat between her shoulder blades, over her spine. I run my hand lightly down her skin, over the mottled reflections of the violence she's endured, over the indentations of her too-prominent vertebrae. For a second she tenses at my touch. Then a tremor passes through her body and her eyes drift shut.

A moment later, she's asleep.

[TBC]


	7. Chapter 7

I wake feeling the most rested I have in… I don't know how long. I can't remember the last time I slept without feeling as if I needed to keep one eye open. Somehow, on this tiny bunk in this rickety little ship, I feel the most secure I have in a long, long time.

The room is dark. I sit up, realising that there's something soft draped over me, although underneath it all I'm wearing is my leather pants. I reach for the light, blinking as it sparks into life. I recognise the blanket. It's one Chakotay used to have in his quarters aboard _Voyager_.

I get up, folding it before I put it back on the bed and reach for the t-shirt instead. Pulling it on over my head, I realise I'm moving more easily. My abdomen is no longer sore. My back feels better than it has in weeks, too, although until now I hadn't realised it wasn't right – obviously I'd forgotten how it feels to be completely pain-free. Now that my mind is clearer, the hours following my failed attempt to make contact in that bar are thrown into sharp focus.

_Chakotay._

Of all the people to bump into, and right now. If it weren't so tragic I'd laugh. Mathematicians could spend years writing papers on the astronomical numbers involved in the statistical probabilities that precipitated this chance meeting. On the other hand, some things in this Universe are built on paths that continually bring them together, even across distances that represent periods of time so vast that human imagination can barely comprehend them. Part of me would like to think we are two such things, as unhappy as that gravitation seems to be. The certainties I used to believe in have long since let me down, but despite the bitter nature of our unexpected reunion, Chakotay has yet to do the same. Our relationship is so damaged that I know it can't be repaired, but right now, simply knowing that people like him still exist – people who do good just because it's who they are, and not because of what they can get out of it – is more valuable than he could possibly imagine.

Ayala's door is shut and the galley is quiet – tidier than the last time I saw it, too. On the table is a back pack, and around it lie various items that make me think it's intended for me – ration packs, a flashlight, a micro-fabric emergency blanket, even a stack of latinum strips.

Chakotay is alone in the cockpit. He looks up from the ancient PADD on his lap as I appear on the step. I don't expect a smile and I don't get one.

"There's coffee," he says, by way of greeting. "Help yourself."

"Thanks." I see the empty mug in front of him and hold out my hand. He passes it to me without a word.

In the galley I find another mug and the percolator with its almost-full jug, and I pour some out for both of us, wondering where they got fresh coffee so far out in the boondocks and also how long Chakotay has been a drinker. On _Voyager_ he rarely drank it much, but you don't waste a jug like this for a single cup. Somehow, it seems wrong that I don't know.

Back in the cockpit, I slide into Ayala's chair. The stars outside are still spinning past.

"How long was I out?"

Chakotay checks the chronometer in front of him. "Almost eight hours."

"_Eight_? Where are we?"

"We crossed into the Kralis sector about an hour ago. At this speed we'll be at the coordinates you gave us in two hours."

_Two hours._ My heart ticks an extra beat in silent celebration. Ironically, thanks to my near-death experience and Chakotay's infallible conscience, I'm almost a full day ahead of schedule. There's still a chance that I can succeed.

Chakotay leans forward and places the PADD on the control panel and then clasps his hands in his lap. "I think we need to talk."

"About what?" I brace myself, expecting to have to deflect questions about my mission in the Kralis sector. I'm fresher now, ready to undo the damage I've done by telling them as much as I have already.

And then he says: "I owe you an apology."

The words are so completely out of the realms of what I was expecting that I just stare at him dumbly. He shifts slightly, uncomfortable under my scrutiny, and I try to find something to say, but I can't, so I just wait for him to continue.

"I really thought that Seven had told you our plans," he says, softly, and I realise that he's taking us back to five years ago, to that last, horrible week when I was trying to hold everything together and failing miserably. I've been failing ever since.

"When she told me she wasn't going to join us, the reasons she gave made me think that she had discussed it with you," he goes on, his voice still quiet. "I thought you knew what we were planning. I realise now that wasn't what happened. I've blamed you for that ever since, and for that, at least, I'm sorry."

I stare into my coffee mug. "She didn't say anything to me until a month after you'd gone," I tell him. "By then, Starfleet had accepted they'd lost you, and they gave up questioning me about it. I assume that's why she didn't tell me earlier. She wanted me to be able to completely deny I knew anything at all. Which, of course, I could."

He nods. I should leave well enough alone, but I can't.

"If you wanted to punish me by leaving the way you did, Chakotay, you succeeded. Even if you thought Seven had informed me of what was going on, didn't you realise I would have wanted to hear it from you? To have a chance to say _goodbye _– not just to you, but to all of the Maquis? You'd been my crew for _seven years_."

His jaw clenches and he flashes me an angry look. "You want to talk about _punishment_? You want to talk about _saying goodbye_?" He takes a breath, and spits the next chain of words so rapidly that it's obvious he's relaying them from what must be a very potent memory. "'Chakotay, Janeway here. I'm sorry, but I can't spend any more time on these debriefings. I need to move on. We all need to move on. In fact, I think it would better if Starfleet and the Maquis keep as much distance as possible from now on. The Starfleet crew is jeopardising their futures by their continued association. I'm sure you understand. Janeway out.'"

I stare at him. I have absolutely no idea what it is I've just heard. Chakotay stares back, his eyes brimming with rage.

"_Janeway out_," he repeats again, his voice full of venom. "That, and cutting us all loose - that's _your_ idea of a goodbye, and you imagine you have a right to say that _I_ was the one punishing _you_?"

"I don't… I…" I stutter, trying to work out what the hell is going on. "Chakotay, what are you talking about?"

He's not listening, still in full flow. "The thing is, I've been sitting here while you sleep, thinking about this, and the fact that you didn't know what we were planning makes that message so much _worse_. I thought it was you signing off after talking to Seven. I thought, when I watched it, that it was your triumphant comeback. _No, she's not going with you, fuck you and goodbye_. But if you really didn't know – if she really hadn't told you – then it was just you. It was just _you_, cutting me – all of us – off. Hanging us out to dry at the mercy of Starfleet. Which makes it worse, doesn't it? It makes it _so much worse_."

My heart is hammering, and I'm trying to catch my breath. None of this makes any sense. "What message?" I ask, "Chakotay _what _message?"

He throws me an incredulous look. "Are you seriously telling me you don't remember?"

I must look like a goldfish out of water, gasping for breath. "I don't know what you're talking about. Remember _what_? _What message_?"

"The message that was waiting for me when I got home from that last debriefing. You couldn't even tell me to my face. You left it when you knew I'd be out."

"I didn't leave you any message."

He laughs, an awful, bitter sound. "How can you sit there and lie to me so _easily_?"

"Chakotay, look at me," I reach forward and grab his arm, spinning his chair so that he faces me. "_Look at me_. I never left you any message. The day of your last briefing I didn't even leave Starfleet HQ until after midnight. They called me into another interminable meeting. By the time I got up next morning, the Maquis – you – had gone. Whoever left you that message, it wasn't me."

He shakes my hand from his arm, staring at me hard. "It was you. Do you take me for an idiot? Don't you think I've spent long enough looking at you to know you in a fucking _snowstorm_ from fifty paces?"

"So you think I'm still lying to you, even now?" I ask him. "I tell you it hurt me when you left without giving me a chance to say goodbye and you think I'm trying to _play _you?"

He turns away, his jaw set. "I don't know, Kathryn. I thought I knew you, once, but that was before. Now…"

Chakotay trails off and I stare at the hard planes of his profile, trying to make sense of what he's saying. Because whatever he thinks he saw and heard, it _wasn't me_. And why would anyone do that? Who would be able to do that? Who could-

The answer hits me like a thunderbolt, so hard that when I speak my voice is nothing more than a whisper as I sink back in my chair. "Section 31."

"What?"

I blink at him, feeling sick. "I swear to you, on the memory of every person I have ever loved, Chakotay, that I never left you that message. It must have been fabricated. It must have been-"

"Section 31."

I nod. "They could do it. I know they have the means."

A silence follows, in which I continue to watch his face. He's trying to work it out. I can tell that part of him wants to believe what I'm saying, but that to do so means letting go of something monumental. At last he shakes his head. It's a denial, but not a furious one.

"Why? What would be the point?"

I've been asking myself the same question, and only one thing seems to make sense. I shrug. "United we stand, divided we fall? Certainly worked in our case, didn't it? They must have known about your escape plan. Maybe you not being around suited them. They must have wanted Seven even then. She'd said it herself enough times: _Voyager _was her collective - her protection. With the Maquis gone, that collective was weaker. And I was such a trusting fool I posed no threat. You would never have told her what I did – that she should go along with whatever Starfleet wanted. Would you? You would have seen their requests for what they were."

He rubs a hand over his face. "I _did_ see. It's why I asked her to go with us. If Starfleet couldn't trust the Maquis, how were they ever going to trust her?"

We sit in silence for a while. I replay in my mind the words he has spent five years thinking I'd left for him to listen to. How could he ever have imagined I would say such things, _do _such a thing? Were we really at such a distance by the end of _Voyager_'s journey that he could imagine that of me? But I already know the answer to that.

"I was so angry," he says then, quietly. "Angry and hurt. I couldn't believe you would do that, and yet there you were – and it _was_ you. There was no reason for me to think it wasn't. I re-watched that message a thousand times that night and it never once occurred to me that it wasn't… The likeness, the intonation, the mannerisms… they were perfect. Perfectly _you_. And just earlier that day, Seven had said she wasn't coming with us, so I thought… If I had spoken to you, face to face, before then – if I hadn't just left Seven to be a go-between, I'd have known. I'd have known it wasn't you. But I couldn't find it in me to tell you before, and then I got that message and… that was it."

I shrug. "Guess that's what they were counting on. That you'd hate me too much to follow up. That you'd just go, and-"

"-and leave Seven," he finishes. "And leave _you_."

[TBC]


	8. Chapter 8

Kralis Prime is a small planet of heat and dust and very little else. The one occupied area of its surface - the trading post Kathryn described as her destination – is an untidy conglomeration of mismatched buildings huddled together in the unreliable shadow of a mountain range. Even from a distance it's easy to tell this is the kind of place you only come to when you've reached the rock bottom of rock bottom.

Kathryn leans against the cockpit's jamb as Ayala brings us in to land amid the mess of spacecraft surrounding the settlement. She's tied my t-shirt so that it fits her more snugly around the waist and her leather jacket – cleaned up as best she can - is back on. On her back is the pack we've given her. She's ready to go. I can tell from the look on her face – calm, intent, determined – that in her mind she's already in the next stage of her mission.

She and I have spoken little over the past two hours. What is there to say that could be fitted into such a small amount of time? My mind has been reeling, trying to readjust. It's hard to believe that it's less than 24 hours since she walked into that bar. Enough has happened in this tiny tin box of a ship to fill every moment of the five years since I last saw her. More, even.

"Well," she says now. "Gentlemen, I hesitate to say that it has been a pleasure, given the circumstances, but – thank you. Without your help, I could never have hoped to succeed. Now I have a chance."

Ayala casts me a look, and I know what he's thinking.

"Kathryn, whatever it is you're about to do – we're going to help," I tell her, standing up. "Did you really think we wouldn't?"

She frowns. "Chakotay…"

"You said it yourself. We're the only collective Seven has. We're not going to let you do this alone. Just tell us what to do, and we'll do it."

"You want me to tell you what to do?"

"Yes."

She's looking at me, her blue eyes perfectly clear. "Chakotay, listen to me. I know you well enough to know that having learned everything you have in the past few hours, the idea that you can't do anything to help this situation is almost impossible for you to accept. But believe me, you've done everything you can. There's nothing else you can do."

"That can't be true. You're planning to go into that quarantine zone – you must be, that's clear. You seriously want me to believe that whatever's in there – inside a vast region of space that Starfleet chooses to police with _deadly force_ – you can go up against _alone_? That's just absurd."

She lifts her chin slightly, her hands finding their way to her hips. It's a reaction so familiar that in other circumstances I might have smiled. But not today.

"I'm not being arrogant, Chakotay, or reckless. I spent two years trying to work out where Seven is, piecing together every scrap of information I could. It's been ten weeks since I left Earth. It's taken me every moment of that time to work out the plan that I am about to execute, a plan I have detailed down to the _minute_, which is the only way it has a hope of succeeding. It's a plan that is based around the actions of one person, and will only work for _one person_. Do you understand?"

"There has to be a way-"

"There isn't."

"But-"

"Chakotay." The voice that cuts me off is soft. "I know from experience that guilt can make a person do stupid things. I know you want to help. I understand that – I do, believe me I do. But changing the plan now, this late in the day? It's not going to help Seven. It's more likely to cement her fate. Let me do this. I'm the only one who can."

I stare at her, trying to find a flaw in her argument, but as much as I hate to admit it, I can't find one. If I were still in the Maquis and in her shoes right now, on the cusp of executing a meticulous plan… I'd be saying the same thing.

"We can't just – walk away. There has to be _something _we can do."

Janeway bites her lip, glancing past me at the chronometer on the control panel.

"Give me that PADD," she says, pointing at the one we use to store client's details. I reach over and get it for her and then watch as she opens a new notation document. After a second of hesitation she types in a series of numbers. Then she hands it back to me. "If you can, be at those coordinates in 96 hours. Run a sub-space scan when you arrive."

"What are we looking for?"

"You'll know when you see it."

I rub my chin, staring at the string of figures on the PADD. I can't believe I'm actually considering letting her go, alone.

As if sensing my hesitation, Kathryn steps forward and places a hand on my bicep. "You got me here, with time to spare to fix the hiccup back on the station. Be at those coordinates and that's more than enough."

Without thinking I cover her hand with mine.

"I'm glad we were able to straighten a few things out," she says, with a smile. "That means a lot to me."

I nod. "And to me."

"I have to go." She lets go of my arm and my hand drops from hers. "Ayala. Thank you again."

Ayala flicks a switch on the control panel and the landing hatch begins to open. Then he stands up and says, very deliberately and with a tip of his head, "Ma'am."

She nods at both of us and moves before there's a chance to say anything else. I follow her to the small exit at the back of the ship and watch as she descends into the harsh sunlight. She pauses at the bottom, turning to look back at me, one hand shielding her eyes. Then she's gone.

I go back to the cockpit. I can see Kathryn weaving between the ships around us, heading for the settlement. She cuts a small figure in the billowing dust.

"Start pre-flight checks," I say, eyes staying on her until she disappears from view for good.

Ayala hesitates for a fraction of a second and then does as I've asked. "We can still make our drop," he observes.

"Good."

"Those coordinates she gave us. Where are they?"

I key them in and check. "Two light years from here."

"What's there?"

I shake my head. "Nothing that I can see. It's open space."

We continue pre-flight in silence, until the ship is ready for lift off. Then Ayala turns to me.

"Did you never tell her?" he asks.

I look at him, and this time I can't pretend to myself that I don't know exactly what he means. "No."

He sighs, nods, and then turns back to the controls. A moment or two later the ship is slowly rising and we're leaving this dust bowl behind. I'm leaving_ her_ behind. Again.

And I can't do it. I just can't.

"Open the hatch."

Ayala looks at me. "What?"

I'm already out of my seat. "We're still low enough – you don't need to put down again. Just open the hatch."

"What's your plan?"

I'm in the galley as I say, "Just not to leave."

He throws the ship into a hover and twists his head, looking at me over his shoulder with a nod. "I'll be at those coordinates unless I hear otherwise. Done?"

"Done."

"Be careful out there," he shouts over the sound of our one good engine, loud through the dropping hatch.

I nod a goodbye, and then I jump. We're only a few meters off the ground and I drop and roll out of the ship's shadow. The hatch is already closing as I get to my feet. Ayala tips me a salute through the cockpit window. Then he's gone.

She's in the third bar I try. I walk in and see her, leaning over the bar, talking to the barman, and I'm hit by a sense of déjà vu. Then she turns and scans the room. Her gaze washes over me and a second later she freezes, turning back with a look of horror on her face. Kathryn barrels towards me, pulling me out through the doors and around the corner into a shadowy alleyway.

"Why are you still here?" she asks. "Chakotay, I thought you understood – I thought we agreed-"

"_This_ is why I couldn't tell you we were going," I tell her, and I know this is not the time or the place, but if I can't make her see it now I don't think she'll ever really understand. "_This_ is why I let Seven be the go-between."

Confusion clouds her face for a second, and then she realises. "Are you talking about the Maquis leaving Earth? God, Chakotay – I've got bigger things to worry about right-"

I reach up and cup her face in both hands. The gesture takes her so much by surprise that her words stutter to a halt.

"I had to go," I tell her. "The Maquis needed me. They were my crew and I owed it to them to get them out of there myself. I _had _to go. And if I'd told you face-to-face… if I'd had to say goodbye, knowing it was probable I'd never see you again… I didn't know if I could just… walk away. I wasn't sure that I could do that." I pause for breath and shrug slightly. "Looks as if my fears were well-founded. Doesn't it?"

Kathryn blinks, and under the fingers that rest on her neck I can feel her pulse pounding. She opens her mouth, but doesn't say anything, but that's all right because I haven't finished.

"I understand that it's too late for you to change your whole plan now. I get that. But I'll stay with you for as long as I'm not putting you in jeopardy, and I'll do whatever I can to help. I'm not expecting anything from you. Maybe too much harm has been done over too long for us to fix whatever might have been there between us once. All I'm asking is that once this is over – once you're back from this mission, we-"

Something flickers in her eyes. It's only there for a split second, and then it's gone, but I see it.

And just like that, I know.

This plan of hers doesn't entail a return trip.

She isn't coming back.

[TBC]


	9. Chapter 9

There are times when I envy the belief in divine providence: in the idea that we are not merely randomly occurring molecular expressions of the Universe itself, a collection of atoms much like any other, simply arranged in a different way. I readily admit that there were times on _Voyager_, for example, that I wished I believed in something more than the elegant yet cold clarity of hard scientific fact. I have never found it difficult to acknowledge that spiritual belief – whatever form it may take – must more often than not be of comfort, particularly in times of emotional difficulty.

This is not one of those times. I would not want to believe that the same divinity responsible for bringing the wonder of sentience into being could play such effortlessly cruel tricks with its wellbeing.

I know he's seen it in my face – the truth I haven't concealed, but also haven't confessed. I never could hide much from him. I've tried often enough to know I always fail. Oh, how much easier those seven years in the Delta Quadrant would have been if I'd truly been able to pretend that he was never anything more to me than an excellent first officer.

For a moment it feels as if we are frozen in time. His hands are warm where they touch my face. His eyes – which on _Voyager_ I never let myself spend much time regarding, for reasons that are surely obvious – display such a gamut of emotion so quickly that I feel I am staring into a maelstrom. A second later he drops his hands and takes a step back.

"There _has _to be another way."

"Chakotay…"

I swallow hard, missing his touch. How can that be, since it was only there for a minute? I put a hand up to my face, resting it where his was a second before, and then I realise how that must look and remove it again. I have things to do – things that have to be done – but now walking away without giving him any explanation simply isn't an option. It's taken thirteen years for us to confront the subject I know he was broaching just then. How can I fail to acknowledge it, now of all times?

"Go back to the bar," I tell him. "Find a table, a quiet one. I have to do something… then I'll be back. We'll talk. I'll explain. All right?"

He eyes me suspiciously, as if he thinks I'm planning on duping him and running instead. I guess I can't blame him for that. It's not as if I haven't done it before.

I step closer and take his hand, lacing my fingers through his. "I _promise_, Chakotay. I don't have much time, but I'll be back."

He hesitates another second and then nods. He turns and exits the alley without another word, and I think, with a relief that skewers my heart almost as perfectly as his touch did a moment before, _He trusts me again_.

I waste no time doing what I have to do. It takes almost all of the latinum Chakotay and Ayala gave me to secure the place on the freighter I've persuaded to take me on as passenger, but the relief once I'm booked aboard is enormous. Phase one complete, phase two pending. But as I said to Chakotay, I don't have much time. They'll leave without me if I'm not there, payment or no payment.

I get back to the bar, out of breath from a flat-out run in the middle of a Kralis Prime day. Inside, I stand catching my breath, eyes adjusting to the dim of indoors after that bright, midday sun. He sees me before I see him – I think he's been watching the door. Chakotay is sitting in one corner, at a table barely big enough for one. Two stubby glasses stand on it, full of something that glows amber in the meagre light.

I take off my pack and leather jacket and then slide into the space beside him, my arm pressing against his.

"I've got less than an hour," I say, immediately. "In fact, I have to be out of here in 47 minutes."

He nods. "All right. Tell me."

My hand strays to my neck to pinch away a nonexistent ache. It's an old habit, a nervous habit. Chakotay's fingers intercept mine as he reaches out to grasp the spot before my own hand has a chance to. His eyes are fixed on my face as he presses gently against the muscle.

"Tell me," he says again, softly. "What's inside the quarantine zone. It's where they've got Seven. Isn't it?"

"Yes." I reach for my glass and take a mouthful. His hand stops moving but he doesn't remove it from my shoulder. Instead he lifts one thumb and strokes it gently over my jaw. "But that's not all they've got. The quarantine is there to conceal a partially destroyed cube."

His thumb freezes for a moment. "What?"

I nod. "According to them, it's dead. Or at least, they think it is. They've been using it to learn more about the Borg, obviously."

Chakotay removes his hand to lean back and I have to squash the urge to tell him not to. "If they've got a cube, why do they need Seven?"

"The drones aboard the cube are dead, and their nanoprobes are non-functioning. They needed… fresh ones. I think, at first, that's honestly all Starfleet wanted."

"At first?"

Somehow I've already managed to finish my drink. Not even the whisky's burn can stop the chill I feel as I tell him the rest.

"As I said, they want effective weapons against a Borg attack. Something they can control." I put the glass on the table. "At some point, someone in Section 31 hit on a brilliant idea: a superweapon built from the Borg's own technology, one that could form a limited link to the collective. The theory is that this link will nullify the Borg's adaptive capabilities. They would recognise the technology as their own, so that when it attacked, their defences would be useless. But the Borg won't take any notice of components from a dead cube – it's why Section 31 have the one they do in the first place, the rest of the collective simply abandoned it and built another. The key is that this weapon has to be accepted as Borg. To accomplish that it has to have something it recognises as part of its whole that it can assimilate, thereby connecting it to the collective."

Chakotay rubs his fingers into his eyes. "Seven."

"Yes. Seven. Section 31 think they've built a Trojan horse weapon out of Borg technology that they can control, through her. They believe they've developed a connection that, when Seven is plugged into this thing, they can command as easily as the Borg martial their drones. It's going to wipe out everything of Seven we know, Chakotay. It's going to lobotomise her the minute they force her into it. Even if she's not re-integrated into the collective – even if that fails, it'll be too late. The Seven we know will be gone."

Chakotay twisted the glass on the table, his jaw set hard. "Do you really think they've accomplished what they say they have? A weapon capable of destroying the Borg from within?"

"I think anyone believing they can manipulate Borg technology is a fool. I think giving the Borg any reason at all to show an interest in us – to bring them further into this Quadrant – is insanity of the greatest order. Everything they have is built on supposition. They have no way of knowing if the weapon will work, or what will actually happen when it powers up."

He nods. "All right. So you're going in to get her out. Now explain to me how, exactly, you think you're going to do that alone. And _why_ it's a suicide mission."

I wince slightly at that word and turn to glance at the timepiece hanging over the bar. Time is running out, and this is so complicated.

"There's a satellite," I say, "a Starfleet defence satellite. It's on a trajectory that patrols the border of the quarantine zone – one of six that cover the entire perimeter. At the outer reach of its orbit it passes within less than a light year of the semi-regular route of a freighter – the _Yal Morn_ – which makes a run that passes the border once every 42 days. I have just bought passage on the _Yal Morn_. The ship has a cargo transporter."

Chakotay frowns. "You're going to beam yourself to the satellite? Using a _cargo_ transporter?"

"Yes."

"Kathryn – there's no way that satellite won't be shielded."

"I know. That's why I'm lucky it's a cargo transporter, not designed for human transport. It's easier to modify the frequency. Not easy, I grant you. But easier."

He stares at me. "You're telling me you think you've found a way to defeat Starfleet security shield protocols with a cargo transporter?"

"I anticipate that it's going to be a rough ride, but yes I do. Once aboard the satellite, I will have 45 seconds to intercept the intruder alarm," I flash him a slight smile. "I have B'Elanna to thank for that one, and also for showing me how to fake an automatic signal that will transmit as an equipment malfunction alert. They'll send a maintenance runabout to see what the problem is. After which I will have a warp-capable ship that can take me to the weapon site."

"They'll see you coming a light year away."

"Yes, they will."

"You're not worried about that because…?"

"Because it will take a while for them to work out I'm not their maintenance crew, for starters. And because once I make it to the weapons site, I think you'll agree that I know my way around a Borg cube better than most Starfleet-trained personnel."

Chakotay acknowledges the point, glancing up towards the chronometer behind the bar. What he sees there prompts him to reach out and take my hand. "And what good will that do?"

I look down at our fingers, tangled together on the tabletop. "I know where the escape pod is."

He frowns again. "Borg cubes don't have them, do they? Like you said earlier – if a cube fails, they just abandon it, and the drones. We've seen that for ourselves."

"Every Borg cube has one single escape pod," I tell him. "It's for the Borg Queen."

Chakotay shook his head. "She has her own ship – the sphere. Why would any other ship need an escape pod built for her?"

"A Borg Queen is like the gorgon," I say. "You cut one head off, and another will arise to take its place. If the sphere is compromised and the Queen killed, another will arise somewhere else – wherever is calculated to be safest - out of necessity until a new sphere can be constructed. The drones are disposable, the Queen – less so. If they can save her, they will. Hence, one single escape pod, built for one single drone, just in case."

His fingers convulse around mine. "One," he says.

"Yes. One. Chakotay – quite apart from stopping the nightmare Section 31 seem about to unleash… I _owe _Seven this. _I_ brought her here. _I _made her believe she'd be safe with us. As much as you couldn't abandon the Maquis – I _can't _abandon her to this. I can't. And if we'd met again last week, or last year, or two years ago, it would still-"

Chakotay reaches out and laces his hand through the hair at the back of my neck. The next thing I know he's pulling me to him. He kisses me, the end of my sentence lost against the touch of his lips. My heart – my battered, exhausted heart, which should know better than to sing at anything, least of all this – stutters a faster rhythm in my chest. I find myself grasping at the front of his shirt, pulling him closer as I return the kiss with a passion that is also a kind of desperation: a sad kind of love that knows it can't expect anything more than this.

[TBC]


	10. Chapter 10

One kiss ends and another begins. It's as if, now I've started, I can't stop. She tastes smoky – it's the whisky, but it's something else, too. Sadness, perhaps. I can feel it in her – in both of us, a sense of loss before the fact. Kathryn has her hand on my chest, bunching my shirt into a fist as she holds me to her. As if she needs to. As if there is any way I could let her go now.

I have to eventually, of course, and far too soon. Timing was never our strong suit, after all. I can feel Kathryn pulling back – gently, gradually, until at last our lips part and she sits back slightly to look at me with bright eyes. Her lips are swollen, her cheeks flushed, and if this wasn't now and if we were somewhere different and if we were other people, I'd be pulling her towards the nearest comfortable place to lie down right now. Instead I tug her toward me again, but this time so that her head comes to rest against my shoulder. I can feel her breath against my neck as she catches it. I have a sense that neither of us has experienced a kiss that intense in quite some time, but then I suppose that's not surprising, given that it has been more than a decade in the making. Over her head I can see the bar's grubby clock, leering at me. I wrap my arms around her, as if somehow I can insulate us from everything outside this moment, as if I can make us nothing more than two people in a dead-beat bar in a dead-end town who have nothing but each other, and nothing to worry about besides ourselves.

"There's nothing in your plan that can't be adjusted to accommodate both of us," I tell her, softly. "I'm coming with you."

Kathryn sighs, her breath washing against my neck. Then she pushes herself up enough to look at me again. "If the tables were turned – if you were the one going and I was the one asking you to let me come with you, knowing that neither of us would survive… Would you let me?"

I touch my fingers to her face, tracing the fine lines that unfurl from the corners of her eyes like the spun silk of a spider's web. She's beautiful. She always was. "Not in a million years."

She smiles. "And there's your answer."

"Kathryn-"

"Don't," she cuts me off. "Please, Chakotay. Don't."

I feel the passing of time like a blunt screw winding slowly into my chest. I've fixed my eyes on her face, but out of the corner of my eye I can see the chronometer, moving inexorably towards the point where she's going to leave me, and this time it really will be forever. I can't let it happen. Like it or not, I'm going with her, even if she doesn't realise it yet.

"Tell me about you and Seven," she says, suddenly. "What happened?"

There's no trace of recrimination there, either in her face or in her voice. Just interest.

"There isn't much to tell," I say. "We had a couple of dates aboard _Voyager_ and then we got back to the Alpha Quadrant. It fizzled out pretty quickly after that. Events just overtook us, really. We cared about each other, but it wasn't anything more than that, in the end. Maybe if we'd stayed in the Delta Quadrant for longer – if we'd had more time together there – perhaps it would have worked." I trace my hand up and down her arm. "It was a compromise, for both of us. You understand that, don't you? For her, because her choices were so limited and for me, because…" I don't think I need to finish that sentence, and use the shrug it turns into to hold her closer against me.

Kathryn sighs. "There have been so many times over these past five years that I've wished I hadn't brought us back the way I did – _when_ I did. Were things so bad out there, really? You could have had a life there. _Seven _could have had a life there. Knowing about the future meant we'd already changed it. There was no reason to believe her life would be in danger any more than it has been here. The others, too. Maybe we would have found a cure for Tuvok anyway, or maybe his disease would never have developed. Either way, life on _Voyager_ wasn't nearly as unhappy as our lives have been since we got back."

She's right, but only because she's missing out one important point. _We_ might have had lives, but she would never have let herself be anything but the Captain.

"You'll look after her, Chakotay, won't you?" Kathryn says then. "I know I don't need to ask, but… she's going to need help. She's going to need _you_."

"Ayala will help her," I promise. "I told you - I'm coming with you."

Kathryn pushes herself out of my arms and turns so that she's directly in front of me, half kneeling on her seat. She grips me by the shoulders for a moment so that she can look into my eyes. Then she leans forwards and presses her mouth to mine, opening my lips with hers and sweeping her tongue against mine with a passion powerful enough to send a thunderbolt sparking into my core. My hands find her waist above the belt of her leathers, where my t-shirt has been tied so that a fraction of her skin is naked to my touch. I feel her inhale, sharply, as my hands push up to brush across her stomach beneath the shirt. Then she pulls back, gasping a little.

"Another drink," she announces, shortly. "We've just got time for one more."

"I don't want another drink," I tell her.

She ignores me, scooping our two empty glasses up in one hand. "I'll be right back."

I'm a little confused, but perhaps for once she just needs a little Dutch courage, and who am I to begrudge her that? I'm in shock myself, so maybe another shot of hard liquor really is what we both need. I sit back, trying to catch my breath, glancing around the room, although of course no one's noticed the floor show. It's that kind of place, I guess. I glance at the chronometer again and realise that there's less than ten minutes until we have to leave. The patrons waiting to be served are three-deep in front of the bar and there's no way Kathryn's going to get to the front, order and back to me again in time. I stand up to look for her in the crowd, but I can't see her, and that's when it hits me.

Of course I can't see her. She's gone.

Cursing, I push past the table so violently that it tips up, almost going over completely until I catch it and ram it back down again. At the door I scan the streets left and right, but there's no sign of her. My heart sinks as I realise I don't know where the ship she's booked passage on is berthed – I know the name, the _Yal Morn_, but there must be a hundred ships or more touched down in this dust bowl, and I have no way of knowing where to start.

I run, ducking and weaving around the hulls of a dozen craft, big and small. She told me she had an hour but that we only had 47 minutes, so she'd left 13 minutes to reach the ship. She called it a freighter, so it must be one of the larger ones, and given that it must now only be 20 minutes from departure, you'd expect it to be a hive of activity – the last lot of cargo being loaded, the rest of it being locked down. That doesn't narrow things down much, but right now I'll take anything I can. Most of the larger ships are further out – makes sense, they generally need more room to manoeuvre. So that's where I head, kicking up dust.

I keep scanning left and right, but I can't see her. All I can hope is that's because she knows where she's going and she's trying to keep out of sight, rather than because I'm going in completely the wrong direction. I break out from beneath the wing of an old Bajoran runabout and ahead of me I can finally see activity – there's a crew loading crates up the ramp of a huge old hulk that has definitely seen better days. I run up to them, out of breath and wishing that universal translators were an affordable enough accessory to be one of the gadgets bouncing around in my pockets.

"The _Yal Morn_?" I ask, pointing up at the gaping ramp behind them. "Is this the _Yal Morn_?"

One of the men – I assume it's a man, although for all I know in their species deep green spines and a neck that looks as if it could bench-press a targ are distinctly feminine features – shakes his head. He replies in a string of something guttural that I can't translate, but it's clear this isn't the ship I need.

"Where?" I ask, pointing down the line of huge ships. "Do you know? The _Yal Morn_ – where is it?"

In answer he points into the indistinct distance. I run, waving a brief thank you behind me. A shout echoes behind me, but I have no idea whether it was a warning or something else. I've passed two more silent ships before a blast of hot air rips along the ground toward me, filling my eyes and nose with dust so that I stumble and almost lose my footing. A rumble follows, a spinning whirr that I recognise as a large pair of engines in pre-flight mode, and suddenly, there ahead of me is what has to be the _Yal Morn_. Her cargo ramp is still down, but there's no sign of anyone on the ground except a lone workman, buffeted by the force of the twin engines either side of the ramp as he checks off points on a battered old PADD.

I reach his side. "Is this the _Yal Morn_?"

He looks up at me warily.

I point up at the ship. "_Yal Morn_?"

He nods and relief flushes through me. I turn toward the ramp, but in a second a large hand has clamped itself to my bicep. I turn back and he's holding up a device between us. For a split second I think it's some kind of weapon, but then he starts to speak and I realise with relief that for him, a universal translator _is_ standard kit.

"Who are you? We don't take passengers."

"I'm here to join the passenger you do have. Kathryn Janeway."

His eyes narrow. "I don't have anyone of that name on my manifest."

I kick myself – of course she'll be using a false name. "Come on, you know who I mean. The woman passenger – you _must_ know, if you don't usually have them."

Something crackles on his chest, a burst of static followed by a barked instruction that must be coming from the flight deck. He presses a button on the radio hanging around his neck. "Ready here," he replies. "All checks green."

He lets me go and pushes me back slightly, away from the ramp. The engines have taken on a different timbre and as he moves, the ramp begins to lift.

"Wait," I say, digging my wallet out of my pocket and pulling a credit chip out of the secret pocket right at the back. "I have to get on this transport. There's a bar's worth of latinum on this. I'll give you the access code if you let me aboard."

He eyes me again. He's big enough that he could easily cave in my skull with the side of his hand and steal the card anyway, but that wouldn't get him the pin. He reaches out and takes the card.

"Go on then," he says. "Tell me the number."

"Not until I'm aboard and we've lifted off."

He laughs, a sound the translator interprets as a series of unsettling growls.

[TBC]


	11. Chapter 11

The inside of the _Yal Morn_ is a dark morass of narrow corridors crowding a dense series of decks that require concentration to navigate. That's probably just as well, as it keeps my mind on the task at hand, instead of what I've left behind.

I hope that one day, he'll forgive me. I hadn't ever intended to drag him into this. I'm grateful that we parted with a better understanding of what we mean to each other, but I'm not willing to let him pay the price that he wants to for achieving that. I couldn't bear to see him die, especially not with the knowledge that there was no need for him to do so.

Now, I have a job to do. There's no point in wallowing in the past, or what-ifs. What might have been never helped anyone. I've got to find the room that houses the cargo transporter and make the required modifications. I'm on a countdown to the point when the orbit of the satellite inside the quarantine border will pass closest to the _Yal Morn_'s passage.

It makes sense for the cargo transporter to be on the lower decks, somewhere near where the load the freighter's carrying is stored. Thankfully, the crew mostly seem to be busy – no one takes much notice of me as I work my way down from the boarding deck: a few glances, here and there, but no particular interest. Perhaps they assume I'm just another crewmember, brought on for the trip. Still, I stay as inconspicuous as possible, keeping to the shadows, avoiding corridors with much activity.

The cargo holds are stacked high with sealed crates of god knows what. I locate the transporter in an ante-room off the main deck and waste no time in getting to work. The controls are in Bolian – it's not a language I know, but when I learned of the _Yal Morn_ and started to familiarise myself with the workings of their civilian transporters I taught myself enough to get around. I had B'Elanna – dear B'Elanna, who was so willing to follow me into the unknown, and would have done, I'm sure, had it not been for Miral – check over my modifications. She made a few adjustments. The calculations are all in my head: for the past weeks that I've been on the run to this point, I've recited them to myself daily.

I'm a fool. I'm so focussed on my task that I don't hear the footsteps behind me until it's too late. Suddenly there's a knife at my throat and a hand clamped onto my shoulder with a grip like iron. I'm dragged away from the transporter console and shoved up against the wall.

"Well, well, well," says a low voice, in my ear. "What have we here? Kathryn Janeway, I presume?"

The sound of my name sends a chill through me. I booked onto this ship under an assumed name, there's no way anyone here should know it. The knife at my throat begins to cut into my skin and then he turns me around to face him.

He's big - much bigger than me. There's a leer on his face as he looks me up and down. It's one of those looks that immediately makes one want a thorough sonic shower.

"What do you want?" I ask, keeping my voice even. "I'm a passenger on this ship, my name is Gretchen Halliday. I don't know who you're looking for, but it's not me."

"Oh, I think it is," he says, his voice softening into a level easily recognisable as dangerous. He digs in a back pocket and pulls out a PADD. Flicking it on he holds it up so I can see the screen. There's my face, and below it the Federation's seal. It's a search bulletin. They've issued a notice to all traffic that they're looking for me. My heart sinks. There's a reward.

"So," he says, stowing the PADD again. "Looks like I get an extra pay day. Come on. I've got somewhere cosy to lock you down until I can turn you over."

I lash out, lifting one fist to parry the arm holding the knife and kicking at his knee with my right foot. It's like landing a blow on Colossus – completely ineffectual. He just grunts and then laughs, tossing the knife away and grabbing my wrist, twisting me around and forcing me back up against the wall, pressing his entire body up against me until my breath is forced from my lungs.

"I was hoping you'd put up a fight," he says. "They don't say what condition they want you back in, after all."

I'm so busy trying to free myself that at first I don't realise that he's stopped moving. He goes completely still, and then, a moment later, steps back, letting go of my wrist. I swing around and see that he suddenly has other concerns. There's a disruptor pistol pressing into his temple.

"Chakotay!"

My attacker continues to move back. He's looking daggers at Chakotay and for a second I think he's about to lunge. Chakotay obviously thinks the same, because a moment later he presses the trigger. The man dies in a graduated glow of energy, his death screams echoing around the room. I've barely had time to catch my breath before Chakotay is at the door, scanning the cargo deck to see if anyone heard. I don't have any time to waste so I go back to the transporter.

A moment later he's back at my side, though his eyes flicker over me only briefly before returning to the door.

"You shouldn't have followed me," I tell him.

"Looks as if you're lucky I did," he observes, mildly.

I shake my head. "I gave a false name. I don't understand how he knew who I was."

Chakotay's silent for a minute and when I glance up at him he's wincing. "Actually, that might have been my fault." I raise an eyebrow at him and he shrugs. "You shouldn't have run, Kathryn."

"I wasn't running," I tell him, "I was implementing the plan. A plan that, I don't know how many times I have to tell you, does not involve anyone else."

I finish the modifications and breathe a sigh of relief. Chakotay reaches out and grips my arm, turning me to face him.

"Kathryn, if you don't take me with you I swear I will hi-jack this ship and fly it straight over the border after you."

I make a sound in my throat that under other circumstances may be a laugh. "Don't be absurd. You'd never make it to the flight deck. And even if you did, the ship would be shot down the minute you violated the quarantine."

He gives me a 'so be it' look.

"Chakotay – this is ridiculous. You really want to force me to take you to your death? _Why_? Self-sacrifice is one thing, but it would just be a waste – a waste of a life I happen to _care_ about. I won't do it. I'm going alone."

He smiles, shaking his head. "What happened to hope, Kathryn? What happened to chance?"

"There isn't a chance. How many times do I have to tell you? This is a one way trip."

"Plenty of people would have said that _Voyager_ being stranded in the Delta Quadrant was a one-way trip."

"That was different," I sigh, "and you know it."

"Yes, it was different. But the principle is the same. We had no way of knowing, for sure, what was coming. We just had to hope that whatever it was, we could get through it. You think there's no way off that cube once you find a way onto it. But maybe – just maybe – there will be."

"_Maybe_ isn't enough. The odds are against me."

"Maybe is enough for me," he says. "The odds might be against _us_ but there are still odds."

He steps closer, until we're standing toe to toe.

"I'm not leaving you again," he says, with complete conviction. "Either I go with you or I follow afterwards. Which do you think has better odds for my survival?"

I lean forward, resting my head against his chest. He lifts his hand and rubs the back of my neck. "I don't want you to die," I tell him.

"And I don't want you to die," he says. "But more than that, I don't want to live on knowing that you died alone and I could have been there. Maybe I _can't _help. Maybe it _is_ inevitable. But if the tables were turned, if our roles were reversed right now, would that stop you?"

I pull back to look at him, his hand resting on my shoulder. "Not in a million years."

He smiles. "And there's your answer," he says.

[TBC]


	12. Chapter 12

Once, a very long time ago, before the last fateful trip into the Badlands that would change my life forever, the _Val Jean_ became caught in an ion storm that almost tore her apart. We'd seen it on the sensors, but we were on a tight schedule, and so I opted for a course that would edge it with very little margin to spare. We would be fine, I reasoned, as long as it didn't make a sudden turn, as both tornadoes and ion storms alike are occasionally known to do. We were full abreast of it, making for clear space as fast as that put-upon ship could manage, when fate dictated that the day would not be nearly as peaceful as I had hoped. My helmsman shouted a warning: that the storm was altering its heading, too fast for us to skip out of its periphery. Before his yell had even finished ringing in our ears we were in the thick of it – conduits exploded, raining storm after storm of spent fire over us as we sheared sideways into the maelstrom, nothing on the sensors or on the monitors except white-hot vibrations of molecules showing themselves as shadowy whips of translucent, violent light. I swear I thought we were done for – the ship shook and rattled, the hull breaching in more places than we would ever be able to patch in flight. I couldn't still myself long enough to see straight, let alone give a clear order over the wail and din of our dying ship. All we could do was hold on and pray, while feeling that at any moment, the icy, dead depths of space would rip their way into our lungs and then out again through our skin.

I still believe that the only reason we survived that encounter – battered ship, broken bodies, each and all barely intact – was because the storm grew bored with us and spat us out. There is no way we could have freed ourselves. In the wake, I sat in my captain's chair and told myself that whatever happened now – whatever showdown came with the Cardassians, whatever brutalities were in our future – I had at least weathered the worst space-faring cataclysm I could possibly ever see.

Apparently, I was wrong.

Kathryn's rigged cargo transport beam grips my spine as if a cold metal hand has reached in and pushed through my hot guts to grab it. I swear I can hear and _feel _my atoms being pulled apart one by one, torn asunder and scattered to space – except instead of spinning away from each other, instead of blessedly losing all sensation in that oblivion, they are still tethered in some way. It's enough to wrench them too and fro, crashing into each other, shaken and hull-breached as badly as that ship of mine from another life.

I materialise gasping for air, flailing and flapping like a half-gutted fish. I'm lying on something cold and hard – metal, with some pattern embedded on it that should be inconsequential but that at that moment feels so large and monumental that lying on it will embed its shape into my skin. There is a light shining from somewhere, so bright that I can't see. I work out how to raise one arm and force it over my eyes, trying to steady my breathing, but it's still ragged. It takes me too long to realise that the breathing I can hear isn't mine. It's someone else's.

I flip myself over and find her lying a few feet away, insensate and shaking like a leaf. She's smaller than me anyway, further weakened by the events of the last few weeks, and she's fared even worse than I have on this journey. Her eyes are shut and there's a bead of bright red working its way down her upper lip from her nose. A reflex sends my hand to my own face to wipe away a trail of wet that streaks across my hand in an equally vibrant smudge of blood.

"Kathryn," I struggle to my knees, reaching out to pull her up and against me. She needs to recover, but there's no time. "Kathryn, listen to me. Forty-five seconds, you said. We need to stop that alarm."

She coughs, gasping for breath and trying to lever herself up, planting her hand against my chest for stability. I grip her fingers in mine, one arm around her to help her to her feet. She keeps blinking and shaking her head, as if trying to focus.

Around us, arranged in a hexagon, the inner walls of the satellite blink and throb with lights, each accompanied by its own switch or button. They might as well be as numerous as the stars in the sky, for they are just as impossible to navigate without direction. I can't help her. She has to do this herself.

Kathryn forces herself upright, stepping shakily away from me as I count the seconds down. She turns, orienting herself to whatever mental schematic she's drawn in her mind. Janeway stumbles forward, gripping the edge of one of the control panels and leaning over it, reaching out a shaking hand. For a split second I feel a pang of dread – she looks so uncertain, so frail, that I think she's more likely to set an alarm off than quell one.

I should know better, of course. The second her fingers touch the keypad she's selected, her hand steadies itself to her task. She presses sequence after sequence – complicated computations that I confess I would struggle to input without having them beside me on a PADD for reference. Her hand hovers after pressing a final key and then she turns, sliding rapidly back to the floor with her back against the console, hitting the deck before I have a chance to catch her.

"Done," she rasps, eyes clamped shut as I duck to her side. "It's done."

I wrap an arm around her shoulders and pull her to my chest. What had I been thinking? As if I ever had any reason to worry. "All right," I say. "What's next?"

"I need to re-route the controls," she says. "Just… give me a minute…"

I press my lips into her hair as her cheek rests over my heart. I wonder, briefly and inappropriately given the circumstances, where the last five years have gone, because right now I can't remember a day without this woman and her tritanium-enforced backbone. Perhaps it's just that I don't want to.

We're resting there, just learning to breathe again, when the satellite judders. It's a heavy impact, clashing a sound through the satellite's interior that has us both scrambling to our feet. It's not a weapon strike, though, I know that much. It's too solid, too definite, and this little bubble of metal is being held on to, not fired at.

It's a ship, docking. I turn to look at Kathryn and I can see she knows it too.

"I thought you stopped the alarm?"

"I did!"

"Secondary?" I bark, looking around for additional weapons, "Silent?"

She raises her hands. "I don't know."

Both of us are still recovering from that hideous transport and neither of us is ready to fight, but we haven't got a choice. I pull out my disruptor as she checks her own laser pistol – for the first time I wonder where she got it from, and I wonder why she didn't hold on to her Starfleet-issue phaser. Wish she had, truth be told. For a community of explorers, the 'Fleet knows how to make good weapons. It's an irony I've noticed before but that seems rather more bitter right now, given the context of our current travails.

There's an echoing hiss as the primary airlock closes, and then a rattle as the door of whatever vessel has docked with us opens. We each crouch on opposite sides of the satellite – there's no cover to take, so it's the only option we have. I'm sweating, my guts still rolling from the transporter trip, and I can see that Kathryn isn't fairing any better. The tension is made worse by the fact that without having to say it, we both know that whatever's coming through that lock – the one that is sliding open now – is likely to be better armed than we are. But if we can take possession of their ship, we'll be another few hours ahead of Kathryn's schedule.

If both of us survive this encounter, of course. And if one of us is to survive, I know it has to be her. There hasn't been enough time for her to tell me every part of her plan once she reaches the Borg cube and anyway, like she said – she knows her way around one of those things far better than I do.

So, as the airlock slides open, I make a decision. Kathryn's damn good in a gunfight. Like everything else in her life, you give her an inch and she'll take a whole damn light year. All she needs right now is the element of surprise.

Before the aperture's all the way open, I lunge without even indicating what I'm going to do. No time for that. I cross the space to the airlock door in a split second, disruptor raised, ready to fire. I get off a shot but it's just wide, smashing through the open airlock and dissipating into the chamber wall. Before I can reorient to get another shot, there's a body coming towards me, low and heavy like a prize-fighter. I hear a yell – low, guttural – and something crashes against my chest, smashing me against the bulkhead and then dragging me to the floor. There's more yelling as I try to pull the disruptor up, and I hear Kathryn get a shot off but I don't think it hits anything but more of the satellite.

Then there's a weight on me, crushing down on my arms and legs so that I can't move, and I can hear a voice yelling, "It's me! Kathryn, it's me! Stop shooting! Stop-"

There's an abrupt moment of silence as Janeway stops firing. In it I see a face, just inches from mine. It's full of fury, just like it was the first time I ever saw it, but that's OK because that's just how she always is - on the outside.

Kathryn says it before I have a chance to.

"_B'Elanna?"_

[TBC]


	13. Chapter 13

"What are you doing here?" I ask, as B'Elanna storms ahead of us into the shuttle, heading straight for the controls. "How did you find me?"

She emits a harsh bark of laughter. "You think I can't follow a trail? When someone asks me to help them crack an ultra-high security alarm system and then vanishes days later – supposedly without trace – I for one tend to take notice. The better question is," B'Elanna goes on, breaking our ship away from the satellite as she angrily punches in commands, "what is _that_ sorry excuse for humanity doing here?"

Her vitriol is aimed at Chakotay, and I remember that she hasn't seen him for five years, either. The man in question is standing behind me. I turn to look at him and he flashes me a guarded look. It occurs to me that their reunion is likely to be no less fraught than our own was. He left her behind too, after all. He took all of her Maquis friends, but not her. Judging from her reaction, she hadn't known what was coming any more than I had.

"Never mind that now," I say. "B'Elanna, you have to get out of here. This is a quarantine zone. They've probably already detected this ship-"

My former chief engineer swings her chair around. "There's a dampening field around our emissions. They'd have to know exactly what they're looking for. We're a damn sight safer aboard this shuttle than you were on that satellite."

I put a hand up to my forehead, trying to process all of this, once again feeling my control of the situation slipping away. I feel Chakotay press his fingers to the small of my back lightly and then drop them again. When I glance at him this time I can see the hesitation on his face. He's not sure how he's supposed to act around me in front of her. I'm not sure I know, either. Chakotay takes a step away from me and turns his attention to B'Elanna.

"B'Elanna-"

"When I want to talk to _you_," she says, "you'll know about it. Kathryn, do you trust him? Because otherwise I'll lock him aft while I explain. We don't have much time."

My gaze drifts to Chakotay again. "Yes. Yes, I trust him."

B'Elanna makes a harsh noise in her throat, as if she can't quite believe my answer. "Fine." She sets a heading and the shuttle slides into warp.

I grip the back of her chair, my anxiety threatening to overflow. "Where are we going? B'Elanna-"

"Tom's waiting for us in a cloaked ship just outside the quarantine zone. If you think we're letting you take a trip into that cube alone, you've got another thing coming." She glances up and smiles grimly at the expression she sees on my face. "Yeah, we know about that. You could have told us, you know. What did you think, that we couldn't be trusted?"

I rub a hand over my face. "Of course that's not what I thought. I was trying to protect you. All of you. You have a family now, B'Elanna-"

She stands up to face me, eyes flashing. It's as if the years between when we first met and now never existed. At heart she's still the fiery young woman she was back then, but now her troubles are mostly someone else's. Mostly mine, in fact.

"_You're _family," she tells me, with a warm kind of fury. "Seven is _family_."

"You know what I mean. Miral-"

"Is just fine with her grandmother. Meanwhile, her grandfather wants you to know he's behind you every step of the way. Figuratively speaking, of course. Literally, he's back at Starfleet headquarters, making excuses for a missing prototype and an absent without leave flight instructor."

I blink at her. "Owen knows about this?"

"We wouldn't be here without him. Well, Tom wouldn't. I'd have come even if it had meant stealing a damned tug to make it."

"What exactly does he know?" I ask. It's not that I don't trust my old friend, but there was a reason I never tried to talk to him about what had happened to Seven. Section 31 can't have been clueless as to my longstanding friendship with Admiral Paris.

"That Section 31 have Seven and that they also have a Borg cube sequestered out here. He knows you've been trying to find Seven and he knows you're out here now."

I take a deep breath. No specifics, then. Thank whomever for small mercies. "That's it?"

B'Elanna shrugs. "It was enough for him to agree to let us come out here and help you."

"With what?" Chakotay asks. It's the first time he's said anything since B'Elanna shut him down, and she doesn't seem any more inclined to warm to him now. "You said a prototype," he adds, persisting despite the glower darkening her face. "What prototype?"

When she answers, B'Elanna is looking at me. "A new cloak. Almost completely impossible to detect. It's what you want for a mission like this, believe me."

"Then why come with this shuttle?" Chakotay asks. "Why not just bring the ship?"

B'Elanna shoots him a glare that could stoke the fires of Sto'vo'kor. "Because I knew _where_ Kathryn would be, but I didn't know _when_ she'd be here. It took more time to get the ship out of dry dock than we'd anticipated, so I came ahead. I only got word that Tom was at the rendezvous an hour before I detected you aboard the satellite."

A beep sounds from the control panel and B'Elanna turns to look at the read-out. Over her shoulder I can see we're reaching our destination, a red dot approaching a blue dot, the distance between the two reducing fast. I look out of the viewscreen but there's nothing but void and stars ahead. According to the panel I've been watching over B'Elanna's shoulder we should be able to see whatever it is we're heading for – the prototype ship – but there's nothing. Not a ripple, not a sheared reflection. Nothing.

B'Elanna opens a channel with a deft flick of her hand. "_Tigris_ to _Dieglian_."

"_Dieglian_ here," says a familiar voice. "Good to have you back, _Tigris_. Transmitting approach vectors…"

"Received," B'Elanna acknowledges, checking another screen before nodding briskly at her husband. "_Tigris_ out."

Then a panel opens in space, as if someone has called for the holodeck exit to show itself. A narrow oblong appears, cutting into the void to show a cargo bay not dissimilar to _Voyager_'s own, if somewhat smaller. B'Elanna checks her heading and manoeuvres us towards it.

Tom Paris never was one for holding back. Therefore it doesn't come as a complete surprise that a few moments after we walk onto the ship he has commandeered, I find myself being pulled into a particularly fierce embrace. Clutched against his chest, I see B'Elanna make for helm and start keying in coordinates. The ship moves imperceptibly – there is no hum of engines as we slide into warp, just the stars spinning past us like fireworks.

"Kathryn," Tom breathes into my hair, as if in immense relief.

I pull away, not really managing to keep the smile off my face despite my preoccupation with the mission that is currently going extremely awry. "Tom," I begin, but he's looking over my head at his other guest: the unexpected one. The one he's nearly come to blows with on more than one occasion.

"Chakotay?"

Chakotay dips his head in a nod of acknowledgement. "Tom."

Tom looks down at me with one eyebrow raised and with an expression that I know of old. It's the sort of look I used to studiously avoid aboard _Voyager_ for fear that it would wheedle out of me secrets best kept deeply hidden.

"Well," Tom says, turning back to Chakotay. "I'm pretty sure there's not enough time in the universe for you to explain what you're doing here – or how you got my wife to hold off killing you."

"You're right," I say. "There is no time. Tom, B'Elanna, listen. I'm grateful that you're here, but you have to let me take the shuttle and go."

"Go?" B'Elanna asks, from the helm. "Go where?"

"You said you knew about the cube. You must know that's where I was headed before you intercepted me."

"We'll take you there," Tom says. "You can explain the plan on the way and we'll work out how we can help."

"No," I say, "you don't understand. I have to do this alone."

"Well, that doesn't sound like a very good plan," says Tom.

"It's not," Chakotay says, softly.

Tom grimaces. "Must be bad if even your first officer can't get behind it."

"He's not my first officer," I tell him, exasperated, "any more than you're my pilot or B'Elanna is my-"

"She's planning a one-way trip," Chakotay adds, talking over me and staring intently at Tom as he speaks. "Kathryn plans to go in and send Seven out. But she doesn't have an exit strategy for herself."

Tom nods slowly as B'Elanna turns away from the ship's controls to stare at me.

"Did I say bad?" Tom asks. "Scratch that. I mean terrible. And also, never going to happen."

Chakotay smiles for the first time since B'Elanna levelled her phaser at him.

[TBC]


	14. Chapter 14

She won't talk to me. B'Elanna hands the helm to Tom once we're underway, and then disappears with Kathryn into what must be intended as the captain's ready room. It has clear glass panels in the walls, and through them I can see the two women consulting a star chart on the wall-mounted display. There's no reason they couldn't have included us all in this conference, but I suspect it has more to do with B'Elanna punishing me than it does with any other practicality. Tom seems unperturbed, but then I imagine six years of marriage to B'Elanna Torres has taught him to weather her anger in a way I must have forgotten.

There was a time I would have walked in there and dealt with whatever I had coming to me. Or, more likely, she would have walked straight up to me and slugged me one – or tried to. Our early relationship can best described as 'prickly'. I had newly been made a Maquis captain when B'Elanna arrived in the group. I thought she was a born troublemaker – insolent, contrary and just spoiling for a chance to undermine me in any way she could. Looking back now I realise we were both at fault – I still had a hangover shaped by Starfleet's mode of command thinking, and B'Elanna spent her time waiting for authority figures to prove that she was right to distrust them. It didn't take me long to work out that she knew her way around an engine room better than some engineers I'd seen with twice her years, and that she fought any battle with every last spark of life in her soul. We warmed to each other eventually, loyalty borne out of a slowly earned mutual respect that then grew into firm affection. For a while I thought perhaps she had a yearning for something more from me, but although by then I loved her, it was never like that between us. I don't think it even was for her, really, the success of her marriage to Tom Paris proof, if proof is needed, that our tangles are of a different sort.

I would walk barefoot over hot coals for B'Elanna. I would stand in front of an entire battery of phaser fire to keep one hair of her head from harm. For a man with so little family, she means as much to me as flesh and blood. More, perhaps, because we chose each other in a way not afforded to true relations. She is too old for me to think of her as my daughter, and too wise besides. I have spent more time with her than with my own sister. There is no blood relation that is cognate with what she is to me. I would let her go to keep her safe, and I did. I knew when I did it that she would struggle to understand my choice, and moreover that I would likely never have a chance to explain it to her. Now here we are, and I do have that chance.

But she won't talk to me.

The _Dieglian_ is quiet, stealthy inside and out. Tom swings his chair away from helm to look at me looking at his wife and I barely hear the motion until he's speaking.

"I'd say, 'give her time'," he says, quietly, "but even if we _had_ time, I don't think it would help."

I look at him. There doesn't seem much to say, except… "Have you – has _she_ \- been happy?"

Tom hesitates and then smiles slightly. "Yes. But she could have been happier. You know?"

I nod. "I know."

"For what it's worth, though, _I'm_ grateful. I know it can't have been easy to do. And I know that by taking the decision away from her, you took the guilt, too." My surprise at his words must be on show, because Tom gives me a lop-sided smile. "We couldn't have gone with you, not all three of us, and she wouldn't have asked us to. She wouldn't have left us, either, and having to say no – to tell you she was choosing us over you - would have torn her apart. But then, you knew that. Right?"

I glance through the windows again. "I'm glad you've been happy," is all I say.

"And what about you?" he asks.

Kathryn chooses that moment to look up, our gazes meeting through the glass. "Could have been happier."

"I figured. And now?"

I head across the deck towards him. "Now you should tell me about this ship. It feels like an _Intrepid_-class, but it's smaller. What are they calling it?"

"_Shadow_-class. You're right, she's half the size of _Voyager_. Forget skeleton crew, think single-handed. Made for reconnaissance, mainly, though she has crew quarters for 50. The _Dieglian_ is the first. They're still working out the kinks, but she handles well enough for me already."

I cast my eyes over the helm controls. They're sleek, refined. This ship is built for speed and it wants everyone on board to know it. To _feel_ it.

"Even with an Admiral for a father, if they realise what you've done, you'll be court-martialled," I point out. "Forget that – they won't even pause for a trial. You'll spend the rest of your life in a Starfleet prison cell with zero hope of parole."

Tom shrugs. "You heard what B'Elanna said. Seven's family. You must feel the same or you wouldn't be here."

I don't think that needs an answer, so instead I ask, "Have they worked out how to safely transport through a cloak? That's something we could really work with right now."

The pilot shakeshis head. "No. The best we can do is isolate areas of the hull from the cloaking transmission, but every test of targeted transporting has been a failure."

"Isolating specific areas? The way you did when B'Elanna docked the Tigris?"

"Right."

"But you can't extend the cloak to include another ship – the shuttle, for example?"

"No. This cloak's supremely efficient, but the price of that is that it also has to be extremely localised."

I look at him. "Are you going to be able to dock the _Dieglian_ with any part of the cube?"

Tom grimaces. "Probably not. She's got docking clamps, but we have to assume that their sensors would detect us the minute we touched down. This ship's made to get in and out as fast as possible without being seen – and without landing or putting down an away team, either. We came, we saw, we sensored, we went again, that kind of thing."

Straightening up, I look up at the viewscreen, still showing the prismatic whip and flurry of stars as we pass them at warp speed. "Then we're still going to have to use the shuttle to reach the cube. We'll be detectable as soon as we leave the shelter of the cloak."

"Not necessarily." Kathryn's voice announces the re-emergence of both women from the ready room. I turn to see Janeway crossing the deck with purpose, every inch the captain despite the fact that she's still wearing her battered leather pants and my old t-shirt tied up around her waist.

"You have a plan, I take it?"

She comes to a stop in front of me, hands on her hips and chin raised. "I have _another_ plan," she corrects me. "I already had a perfectly good one, but-" Kathryn lets a smile curve the corner of her mouth, "somehow that seems to have been thrown out of the airlock without my permission."

A beeping from helm has Tom checking his instruments and the rest of us searching the viewscreen for what we know must be lurking out there somewhere. Once I've seen it, it's hard to lose again, despite the enormity of the expanse surrounding it. It's a malignancy in the spacescape that draws the eye, a speck growing larger in our sights as it coalesces into something recognisable yet also hopelessly malformed. Hidden deep in the void glints a gigantic nest of silvery metal that was once a cube but is now twisted, eviscerated. Its current imperfection results partly from whatever calamity originally befell it, but is also partly recognisable as deliberate tinkering. The Borg cube has been splayed open, its stiff, inorganic innards split and spread and pinioned wide like the entrails of a dissected insect. Unlike a victim of dissection, however, it has been augmented: segments have been melded to it that do not belong.

It is a chimera. Its appearance is more terrifying, even, than the Borg themselves.

We all stare at it in silence at it looms larger and larger in the viewscreen, until it is obvious that whatever we are about to do must be done, and soon.

Kathryn looks up at me. "I'm still willing – I still _want_ \- to do this alone."

I don't reach for her, though I want to. "I can't let you. I won't."

"Neither will I," B'Elanna adds. "So let's get ready."

"For what?" I ask them both, though I know which of them will answer.

Janeway glances at the viewscreen. "How long since your last space walk, Chakotay?"

[TBC]


	15. Chapter 15

We suit up in the cargo bay, slowly cocooning ourselves from the feet up in the thick multiple layers of engineered fibre that will keep up safe from the ravages of space. My question to Chakotay about how long it had been since his last space walk is a pertinent one: for all humanity's gadding about the cosmos, even Starfleet personnel rarely go into the void. Space is not a safe environment. Humans were not built to live in it. Starfleet has a mandatory policy that orders officers of all rank to take a walk in space every six months to make sure everyone is aware of the latest kit, regulations and recommendations. Without this requirement it could be years between experiences for many of us outside the maintenance crews. For Chakotay, then, this was likely to be the first time in a very long time that he'd set foot in space in this manner, and these were in less than ideal circumstances.

B'Elanna and I had realised that what this operation now required was not an all-guns blazing assault but for us to thread a needle. We couldn't make use of the _Dieglian_ for a full-scale assault: we'd be blown out of the proverbial sky the minute we were sighted. But the cloak meant that they hadn't seen us coming, and that was still an advantage. Sometimes small is beautiful. Sometimes small defeats the sensors. We'd decided to take the ship in as close as we could to the mutilated cube. From the uncloaked and open cargo bay we would propel a line directly into the belly of the beast and use that line to infiltrate the vessel. It wasn't a foolproof plan. We were banking on the sensors being set to wide-spectrum rather that close quarters scanning – a reasonable gamble given the quarantine zone, although that was still no guarantee. There would still be forcefields to disable, guarded routes to navigate, proximity alarms to avoid.

Once inside we will find Seven, load her into the additional suit we'll take with us for that purpose, and exit the scene in the same manner just as swiftly as we can.

Sounds simple. It will, of course, be nothing of the kind.

"Ready?" Tom asks. I glance over and see that he's talking to B'Elanna. The two of them are standing very close together.

"Ready," B'Elanna says, quietly. Then she takes a breath and adds, "Tom, if anything happens – Miral-"

"Don't," Tom tells her, and then stops his wife from saying anything else by pulling her close and kissing her soundly.

I look at Chakotay. He's watching me with those dark eyes of his. It isn't hard to tell what both of us are thinking in that moment: that Tom and B'Elanna have the right idea. Seize the moment. Make it last, because this may be the final chance to say a last goodbye, at least without the impenetrable layers of our suits in the way, not to mention whatever weapons fire could separate us in the end.

He clenches his fists, bunching them inside the suit, but he doesn't move. Neither do I. If we were alone, it would be different. But we aren't alone, and no matter what the circumstances, I don't think throwing ourselves into each other's arms in front of Tom and B'Elanna is an ideal situation for either of us. Not when this is all so new. Not when neither of us can really fathom how we've come to this point, now, after so many years of being so torn asunder. So we hesitate, and then the moment moves on, as moments like this so often do.

Chakotay smiles slightly, his eyes warm. I wonder how I've managed to get through the last five years without him: without that smile, those eyes, that face. I smile back and not for the first time feel everything I ever tried to hide from him in those early years aboard _Voyager_ written plainly across my face. It's been a while since hope for myself has existed within my heart. I never expected to get out of this alive. Now, the perimeters of my expectations have shifted. This plan, as foolhardy and frankly desperate as it is, has an exit strategy.

And I want to get out, I realise. I _want_ to survive this.

Something flashes through my mind: an image, a wish, there in my head for less than a second but so detailed, so vivid – too much and also too little to put into words. It's a future. My future. _Our _future. Perhaps. If this isn't, after all, goodbye.

"You two all right?"

Tom's voice catches me by surprise. I turn to see that B'Elanna is putting her helmet on. Tom is looking between Chakotay and me with one eyebrow raised. I think if we gave him a chance he'd probably ask us if we need a minute.

"Yes," I say, scooping up my helmet. "Let's do this."

We wait silent and tense, breathing into the closed air of our suits, as Paris manoeuvres the ship into position. Up close, the cube is even more terrifying, looming in our sights with such magnitude that its flayed edges are almost impossible to track. In addition to the pulse weapon we all carry strapped to our backs, B'Elanna also has a toolkit. Seven's suit is split between Chakotay and me for ease of transport – it'll be hard enough to infiltrate this thing without any of us having our hands full.

The _Dieglian_ handles so smoothly that it's hard to even feel her moving. Under other circumstances I can imagine Tom Paris barely able to contain his pilot's excitement over getting to take such a craft on her maiden voyage, but right now we're all just focused on the task at hand.

The ship slides to a stop and the cargo bay opens. There is the deep blackness of nothing, there are the stars and here before us is the twisted hell we must pass into. B'Elanna stands beside the rapelling line we've spent the last two hours rigging to the bay's rear bulkhead. Between us we've calculated the optimum area of ingress – a closed storage module far enough from any activity and benign enough to be considered of little importance to whomever may be in charge of its security. It means a greater distance between us and our objective, but we have to take what slim advantages we can.

"Do it." My order, spoken inside the enclosed space of my helmet, seems to travel nowhere. Yet a split second later the line shoots past me, propelled from the winch and out into space. The line spins out into nothing, meeting no resistance even when it at last touches its destination and pulls taut.

B'Elanna makes her way towards us as Chakotay moves to my side. He touches his hand discreetly to my back, a gentle touch I fancy I can feel even through the double layers of our two suits. I don't acknowledge it. There is no time, and what more is there to say?

I wait until B'Elanna is with us, and then I walk to the open cargo bay door, grip the metal line, and step out into oblivion.

[TBC]


	16. Chapter 16

Space is cold. It's the kind of cold of which it is impossible to conceive before you experience it. It pulls at your insides, hollows you out and fills you at the same time, even with the bulk of a protection suit. My jaw clenches immediately as I follow Kathryn into the void. The only thing between any of us and the nothing between stars is the grip of our hands passing one over the other along this thin metal line. Radio silence en route. No sound inside my helmet except my own breathing, which sounds too loud, too frequent, too erratic. I keep my eyes on the small figure in front of me, dwarfed by our destination and yet still heading unerringly onwards.

We're half way there when all hell breaks loose.

The blast comes with no warning. It sails out of the looming dark of the cube, an explosion that severs our tether just in front of Kathryn. The rapelling line whips around viciously, curling like a striking snake. B'Elanna and Kathryn both lose their grip as the line writhes and bucks. I manage to grab hold of B'Elanna's suit with one hand – she's closer – but within seconds Kathryn is floating into the ether.

"_Kathryn!_" My voice echoes loud against the sound of my ragged breathing. There's clearly no longer any need to maintain radio silence – they know we're here and they know where we are.

Another blast, then another, then another, then a volley. They're not just firing at us, they're firing at the _Dieglian_ – they can't see her, but they've realised she must be there somewhere. The weapons fire ricochets off the ship's shield, delineating her hidden shape in blue-white bursts of cursive fire.

"Kathryn!" I shout again, and then, incensed at her silence, "Janeway! _Respond_!"

There's a crackle in my ear and then fragments of her reply break through the static. _"…tay… n't… ver…"_

"Use your thrusters," I shout back at her, over her broken comms. "Kathryn-"

Another inferno blooms behind us, bigger and more powerful than the others. They've launched a photon torpedo at the _Dieglian_. The shockwave crashes into us like a tsunami and B'Elanna and I cling to the line still attached to the ship, even as it shudders in our grips. I see Kathryn buffeted like a leaf in the wind, rolling even further out of my reach but closer to the cube. The wave reaches it too, triggering the green shimmer of a forcefield. My pounding heart sinks. Even if we can reach it, we're not getting in.

"_Tom's got to go,"_ B'Elanna shouts to me, her voice tinny over comms. _"If he stays, he's dead."_

"If he doesn't, we all are," I bellow back.

"_He can get out, regroup, come back,"_ B'Elanna counters, her voice shaking as if her teeth are chattering. _"If they destroy the ship, we're lost for sure."_

As if to prove a point another volley of blasts impacts with the ship's hidden hull, enough to illuminate her slender shape. They're picking her out against the starscape. If she doesn't move they'll know exactly where to strike next. B'Elanna's right.

"Chakotay to _Dieglian_," I yell, "Retreat. Get out of here. Understand?"

There's a pause.

"_Go, Tom," _B'Elanna bellows._ "Just go!"_

"_All right," _comes Tom's reply._ "I'm going to have to cut your tether…"_

"Do it! Do it now!"

A slice of phaser fire burns through the void, cutting cleanly through the rapelling line.

"_I'll be back,"_ comes Paris's voice. _"Make sure you've got your beacons lit."_

Something shoots past us from the cube – another photon torpedo, aimed directly at the _Dieglian _amidships.

"_Go!"_ B'Elanna screams, _"Tom, just go!"_

There's a barely-perceptible ripple, as if the space behind where the ship was has shifted just slightly. Just like that, the _Dieglian_ is gone.

I search out Kathryn, silhouetted against the cube's hulk. She's floating aimlessly – her thrusters must be as fried as her comms. That's bad, but not as bad as if she were in completely open space. She's still near the cube. If we can find a way to get the forcefield down she may be able to grip it long enough for us to reach her.

"Thrusters," I order B'Elanna. We activate ours in tandem and feel the slight jolt as the blast of minimal power from our heels and the small pods at our shoulders pushes us forwards. They won't last long or get us far, but they're all we've got.

_Bam! Bam-bam-bam-bam!_ Another volley of weapons fire, far too close for comfort. I'm temporarily blinded and when my vision clears the first thing I look for is Kathryn.

When I find her my blood runs cold.

"Janeway!" I bellow. "_No!_"

She's managed to pull the pulse rifle from her back and is aiming it at one of the shield generators. If she can take it out, it'll knock a hole in the cube's protection big enough for us to get through. That plan would be great – that would be just fine – except that she's floating in space with nothing to anchor her. The pulse rifle has a kick-back that'll slam into her shoulder the minute she fires it. She's strong, but right now you could put that thing in the arms of a Dagan bloodwrestler and it wouldn't make any difference. Not in zero G.

She knows this. Of course she does.

I shout again, but I don't know if her comms. are even letting her hear me and the volley of weapons fire just keeps coming. The sheer odds mean that sooner or later B'Elanna or me or both of us are going to get hit.

Kathryn knows this too.

She fires at the shield generator, a swift, successive series of blasts that pulverises it into nothing more than space dust. A section of shield the size of a towerblock sputters and blinks out as Janeway's pulse rifle slams back into her, sending her into a cartwheel. There's a faint trace of something venting from her suit – a line of oxygen spurting through a puncture that's probably too small to see but still big enough to be lethal. Kathryn spins back away from the cube like a rag doll caught in a tornado, turning feet-over-head-over-feet-over-head out into the void.

Beyond my reach.

Beyond _anyone_'s reach.

[TBC]


	17. Chapter 17

"_Kathryn!_"

I almost follow her into the void, as if I could reach her just by taking a step. B'Elanna's iron grip clamps itself on my shoulder before I can.

"Chakotay!" she shouts, her voice tinny inside my suit helmet.

I try to shake her off, but she's resolute. Another volley of phaser fire rains around us like an erupting volcano, blinding me – blinding her – but she still doesn't let go. A second later she's dragging me towards the open split in the cube's defences, our thrusters sputtering as their power begins to run down. B'Elanna heads for an airlock opening, still pulling me with her. I look behind me, still half-turned towards the stars, still thinking of nothing except that tiny figure cartwheeling away into oblivion, venting oxygen into space. I can't see her now. Kathryn's too far away, lost to the vastness of everything around her.

The speed with which it all happened has me so stunned that denial is the only thing that makes sense. She was right here. She's not gone. She _can't _be gone. She can't be. Not now.

It's a complication, but we knew this would be difficult. We just have to retrieve her, that's all.

B'Elanna lets go of me to work on getting the airlock open. I follow her inside and the atmosphere hisses into place around us. A second later I wrench my helmet off, gasping the slightly stale air.

"We have to get to the shuttle bays."

B'Elanna makes a strangled sound in her throat. "And do _what_?"

"We can still reach her," I say, as I pull my pulse rifle from my back.

"We don't even know where they're keeping the shuttles. Finding one, fighting our way there when they know we're here now? We can't. We'll never even make it that far."

"We will."

"Chakotay-"

"Her thrusters weren't working, which means she's travelling at a minimal speed so it shouldn't be difficult for a scan to find her."

"Chakotay-"

"We'll use a dampening field on the shuttle we take to hide our emissions as we beam her aboard," I go on, priming the rifle as I speak fast and low. I'm avoiding looking at B'Elanna's face, because whatever it is she's trying to say, I know I'm not going to want to hear it. "We should have thought of that first anyway, because-"

"Chakotay – _stop_."

"-having a shuttle will be far more use than a single extra-"

B'Elanna throws a punch at me so quickly that I don't even see it coming. She cracks her closed fist into my jaw with a speed and force that snaps my head sideways. My eyes water and my teeth rattle.

"She's dead," she shouts at me. "She was venting oxygen and you know as well as I do that _she's already dead_!"

I whip back around to face her, rage spilling up out of my gut, ready to fight, ready to pummel her into the wall.

But I don't. Because B'Elanna Torres has tears in her eyes.

I stare at her, ears ringing, jaw clenched, not breathing because there's pain coming at me like a storm front, _like the face of someone I know and love, like the face of someone I never thought I'd see again-_

"Man up," B'Elanna hisses at me, voice angry and broken as she stands in front of me and lets the tears slide down her face. "Kathryn's gone. She's _gone_. Even if we can somehow reach a shuttle it'll be too late. Even if her locator beacon is working and even if she's managed to activate it, Tom's not going to find her in time. She's gone and there's just us now. So man the _fuck _up and help me find a way to save Seven. Or do you want everything Kathryn went through to get here to be for _nothing_?"

She swipes the tears away with the back of her gloved hand, then grabs her weapon, primes it and lifts the pulse rifle to her shoulder. B'Elanna moves off down the corridor without even checking to see if I'm behind her. There are sounds echoing towards us through the buzz in my ears, the shout of issued orders, of heavily booted feet on metal. It's still distant but soon it won't be. We have to move. _I_ have to move. I have to remember there's still a reason to move.

I feel the anger building in my gut, the pressure almost a physical thing, and I let it come. I let it come because the alternative is useless and would make me useless, too. I had let the pulse rifle fall slack in my hand in the wake of B'Elanna's assault but now I swing it up again. My fingers clench around it as tightly as they did around the glass I held in the moment that I saw Kathryn Janeway for the first time in five years. The anger bubbles into a rage so abject it obliterates everything else, and then I'm moving.

Within a moment I reach B'Elanna, who doesn't even spare me a glance. We traverse the corridor, the echoes growing louder with each step we take. B'Elanna veers off, taking a passageway so narrow it must be a maintenance access shaft. She takes point and I swing around so that I can cover our backs. I'm almost too late as a burst of searing phaser fire shoots towards me. I duck just in time and the laser instantly pierces the dark metal above my head. They're clearly playing for keeps – no sign of their phasers set to stun and so help me, at the moment I'm not inclined towards mercy. I fire back, dead centre, full power.

The blast pulverises the front runner in what must be a long line of our pursuers. I feel the weapons' kick-back smash into my shoulder and I remember that last glimpse of Kathryn, heading backwards into the void. I fire again, and then again, and right then I don't care if I'm hitting anything: I don't care if I tear this cube apart.

B'Elanna keeps going and I keep following, twisting and turning, getting off a shot here and there. Then there's an explosion behind me as one of their weapons narrowly misses us and smashes into the wall of the corridor instead. A second later shrapnel hits me – a glancing blow to the side of the head – and I see my blood spattering out in an arc in front of me before I even register that it's come damn near to slicing my ear off. There must be pain but I can't feel it. I turn to see B'Elanna still moving, apparently uninjured.

We make another turn and our surroundings open out a little – we're no longer in a corridor, instead we're in a junction room of some kind. There's a door ahead of us and between us and it are more bodies with guns. They're in uniform but it's not the standard issue Starfleet one I recognise – it's black, as black as the deeds they are doing here, and no matter what oath I may once have sworn to the 'fleet or to myself, I'm in no mood to hold myself back for an ideal they have shoved aside themselves.

I grab B'Elanna and pull her back into the corridor, pushing her down to floor level while I fire over her head. It's a tactic we used in the Maquis to maximise our coverage when we were short-handed, which was always. It's not hard for me to imagine that we're back in those days, holed up somewhere desperate – it was always somewhere desperate – and right now I'm feeling so much hate it's not hard to believe everyone in front of me is a damn Cardassian. I fire and fire and fire until the space in front of us is full of fumes and the stench of burning flesh. It's a nauseating smell, one I'd once hoped I'd never be responsible for unleashing again, but at this moment I'm blind to everything except my rage and the knowledge that if I let that go I'm going to be consumed by a pain so great it will sink me without a trace.

I become aware of a noise and realise that B'Elanna's shouting at me to stop.

"Quickly," she says, as she gets to her feet. "Before they send reinforcements…"

We cross the space now littered with half-charred bodies and I think something inside me must be dead because I feel nothing. B'Elanna takes one look at the door and utters a harsh _fuck _before pulling out her toolkit. It's the second time I've heard her utter that human curse. She's picked it up from Tom, just as he's picked up a few of his wife's Klingon phrases. It's a sign of intimacy, of habit, of closeness, and for a second I am consumed with irrational, incongruous, inappropriate jealousy because _I want that_. My god, I want that. But she's gone. _She's _gone, she's dead, she's lost to the space she loved so damn much and-

I haul B'Elanna out of the way and raise the rifle just enough to fire at the lock. I pulverise it just the way Kathryn did that shield generator. I turn it to nothing but dust, which I know is the only thing I'll have left inside me once the rage and pain have burned everything else away.

[TBC]


	18. Chapter 18

It has been said that the most peaceful way to die is drowning. I think I can believe that. Imagine poor tortured Ophelia, her hair growing heavier and heavier in the current. Imagine her sinking lower and lower, singing all the while, letting go to the cold, gentle water. Letting it pull her down, letting it make her heavy with something other than pain for a change, letting it block out first the cacophony of the world, then her twisted, too-bright vision of it. Yes, I can believe that drowning can be a peaceful way to die. I want to believe it, truth be told.

No one has ever said that suffocating is an equally peaceful end, and I don't have any trouble believing that, either, especially now, when it seems I've made it my fate.

The cube is small in my vision now, only a little bigger than the pinpricks of stars around it and without the associated light. I'm turning more slowly the further I drift. The curlicue of my lost oxygen is lazy now, like steam rising from a cup of hot coffee on a cold morning in Indiana.

I shut my eyes, trying to centre myself despite the spin. It's already harder to breathe. My lungs are rasping as they search for air and can't find enough to fill them. I'm light-headed with the lack of oxygen, though still lucid even as my mind drifts. Snatches of song heard in childhood, voices of loved ones long gone and only recently found, fragments of memory, jumbled and out of order – all these are flitting through my frontal lobe. It's my life, I realise. It's my life, meandering before my eyes.

I'm dying. I know I am. In a few moments I will try to breathe in and there will be nothing there.

I turn over again, heels skyward were there a sky instead of only stars, then earthwards were I ever to see such solidity again. Something bumps against my back, a sensation I belatedly realise I've felt with regularity ever since my spin began. I turn my head and look over my shoulder as far as my helmet will permit, and I can see what it is.

I've still got half of the space suit we intended as Seven's get-out clause strapped to my back.

_They'll find another way,_ my sleepy brain tells me. _Chakotay and B'Elanna. They'll get her out another way…_

I turn over again.

It bumps into me again.

The slight sensation prompts me into a painfully slow realisation.

The half of the space suit I have…

…it contains the oxygen supply.

_I've got another oxygen supply strapped to my back._

Here I am, sputtering out, but still synapses begin to fire slowly amid the fog of oxygen deprivation. There's extra life, right there, if I can access it… but how? _How…?_

I reach around, fumbling, the motion pushing me into another spin. I pull the tank off, gripping it as hard as I can. There's a pipe that is supposed to connect to the intake on the other half of the suit. Where's the tear? _Where is it?_ If I could…

I take a breath, but there's no air.

No air…

_No. No, wait… Give me a minute. Just…_

…_I can do this._

_I can…_

_Can't breathe. Can't… There are stars._

…_I'm drowning…_

…_drowning…_

_What was I doing?_

_There is no time and… but…_

_Perhaps it doesn't matter anyway._

…_there are…_

…_there are only…_

…_only…_

…_stars…_

…

[TBC]


	19. Chapter 19

The door blows backwards into a darkness that flickers with the bright intermittent hue of electronic lights. I step inside with B'Elanna beside me. Something fires at us immediately, heat and death shooting out of the gloom in the form of phaser fire. We both fire back, our twin rifles converging on its source with devastating force, and after that - nothing.

"There'll be others on their way already," B'Elanna warns.

I nod. "Is this it? Is Seven in here, or not?"

B'Elanna frowns and moves forward. I follow as we both scan the room, weapons still at the ready. The space we're in is large and dim, full of tangled wires and pieces of apparatus that are entirely foreign to me. There is no sign of humanity here, it's cold metal upon cold metal linked by machine, and for a moment I think Kathryn must have been mistaken. We must have come to the wrong room, and Seven's still out there somewhere, lost in the tangled mess of this cube.

But then I see her. It's only a flash, really, a patch of something pale hidden to my right amid the dark, but it's enough to catch my eye.

"B'Elanna." I lift my chin, jerking it towards the mess in front of us. Rifles still raised we both edge towards and around it. It seems to be nothing but a tangle of wires and pipes until we move to the other side.

"Oh God…" B'Elanna's face crumples into horror. I stare dumbly at the wreck before us, barely able to register it as human or Borg, let alone Seven of Nine.

She's been placed on her back in some kind of chamber that has so many narrow metal conduits leading from it and into her epidermis that they hide most of her body. What I can see of her is emaciated. Her fingers, resting at her sides, are virtually skeletal. They've shaved her head, re-exposing the Borg implants she had worked so hard to hide. Some of these have been re-opened, prised apart and probed with more hardwiring. The pale skin of Seven's face is pulled taut across her bones and-

-and they've taken one of her eyes.

It's her left one, where the most hideous of her Borg 'enhancements' used to be. Now there's just an empty socket that has been lined with a thin metal to form a conical recess leading into her cerebral cortex. Above her, just inches from the blind gap that used to see, is a matching metal cone that attaches to the machiney around her, clearly made to fit the space where her eye once was. It looms over Seven like the hand of some great beast from a nightmare. I remember what Kathryn said and I have no problem at all believing that when this thing is plugged in it will rob Seven of the last of what makes her herself.

For a moment I wonder if there's anything left of her even now. Her one remaining eye is closed and if she's breathing at all it's so shallow that it's hard to tell if she's even alive. I feel the rage building again, mixed with a fresh pain laced together with renewed guilt. _Should have tried harder. Should have made her come with us…_

"Chakotay," B'Elanna says, "We've got to-"

"_Chakotay…?"_

The echoing whisper comes from the figure lying below me. Seven opens her one blue eye, which is listless and half-blind, shadowed with pain and hunger.

"I'm here," I say as I lean over her, my heart clenching hard. I reach out and brush my fingers over her cheek and I'm almost glad that Kathryn didn't have to see Seven like this. It would have broken her heart. "B'Elanna, too. We're here, Seven. We're going to get you out."

B'Elanna puts down her rifle and gets to work, severing the cords that bind Seven into her prison. Seven moves her head but doesn't have the energy to do anything more. It isn't until B'Elanna's ripped away most of the conduits that we realise Seven has been clamped down at the arms and legs. B'Elanna swears, rubbing a hand over her face, and it's at that moment we hear the sound of running feet. We both look towards the pulverised door that isn't going to keep anyone out, least of all the troops we know are coming.

"Can you get through those?" I ask, hand tight around my pulse rifle, nodding at Seven's bonds.

"They're tritanium reinforced," B'Elanna says. "The only thing I've got that has a hope of cutting through it is the pulse rifle. If I set it low I might be able to target it without slicing into her, but…"

Shouts now, echoing down the corridors outside. More running boots, the sounds rapidly converging on our position. I look around, because I'm going to have to keep them off our backs alone if B'Elanna's going to free Seven. I see several tanks with yellow and black warning labels pasted to them. I've no idea what they are and there's no time to find out, but if they're lethal enough for that kind of warning – not to mention for the masks I can see housed in the sealed locker beside them - then they're useful to me at this moment. I drag my helmet over my head, closing the seal as the oxygen kicks in with a hiss.

"Suit up – get your helmet on," I order B'Elanna.

I cross to the locker and smash it open with the butt of the rifle, dragging out one of the oxygen masks and then going back to Seven. I slip the mask on her and pull it in place over her nose and mouth.

"Get her out of there, B'Elanna," I say. "Do it fast. Do it _now_."

B'Elanna's already on it as I begin dragging tanks from their moorings and to the door. This is an insanely foolhardy idea, but I can't see any other option. I have to hope that whatever's in these things is enough to stop our attackers in their tracks yet not volatile enough to blow this whole place apart. But there's no time to prevaricate. All I have is what's in front of me right now.

I roll the tanks into the corridor one after another in both directions as the boots keep coming. I wait until they are close enough that there are shadows dancing on the walls. Then I take aim at the furthest tank and fire.

The first explosion is enough to knock me off my feet. The concussive blast throws me back through the door and down on to my spine with enough force that the ache in my jaw from B'Elanna's left hook is entirely obliterated. In the punctuated second following there are shouts and screams from outside, but they're swallowed by successive explosions as each of the tanks is set off by the last. The cube quakes and B'Elanna slams down next to me. The pulse rifle is thrown from her hand and the weapon dances across the shuddering floor in a jig of its own making. It's impossible to do anything except lie there, clinging to a floor that I am convinced will cease to exist at any moment. I keep waiting for the cube to depressurise, for whatever fissure I've blown in this thing to start sucking out the atmosphere, but it doesn't happen. Instead the explosions stop, and although the shaking continues, it lessens.

I struggle up and turn to see Seven trying to crawl away from the nightmare that had held her fast. She's free. B'Elanna did it. I pull Torres to her feet and then go to Seven. I lift her out of the wreckage and she weighs so little that it's like holding smoke.

"All right," I say, as the deck continues to shake beneath my feet. "It's all right. Let's get out of here."

I turn around with Seven still in my arms to find B'Elanna staring at me with a look of despair on her face.

"The spare suit," she says. "We don't have the spare suit."

[TBC]


	20. Chapter 20

The cube is shaking itself apart. The explosions I started must have set off some deeper chain reaction, and now every step we take is across a landscape of deck plating that is juddering so violently that it's working itself loose.

"What are we going to do?" B'Elanna shouts at me, as I lead her through the wreckage of my earlier exploits, still carrying a semi-conscious Seven.

"The escape pod," I shout back, as the noise around us continues to intensify. It's like standing inside an earthquake and I wonder how long we've got until everything around us loses cohesion completely. "The one Kathryn was going to use. We have to get Seven into it."

"That's two decks down," B'Elanna tells me. "And we're talking _Borg_ decks, not Starfleet. We'll never make it. Not before-" she stops short, then reaches out and grabs my arm.

B'Elanna tugs me deeper into the fractured shadows and ahead of us I see movement. It's a group of Section 31 personnel. They're running full pelt and it's clear they're not looking for us. They've got worse things to worry about right now, and that makes me realise that B'Elanna's right. Another group appears from the opposite end of the corridor and as we push ourselves further into the dark until they have passed, I make a decision.

"I'll take Seven," I tell her. "You get to the nearest airlock. Use whatever power you've got left in your thrusters to get as far away from this thing as you can. Activate your beacon. Tom may be back out there already. If not, he will be soon."

"No," B'Elanna says, flatly. "You've got even less chance of making it out if you go alone."

"It's either the pod or I give her my suit," I tell her. "I'm not losing her, not now."

"And I'm not losing _you_," she tells me angrily, eyes flashing with fury and something else I can't quite define but lifts my heart despite everything. "Not now you've finally decided to show your face again. And if you think I'm going to let you martyr yourself because of what happened to Kathryn, you've forgotten who I am."

Last chances. You never know when they're going to come. Out of all the things that knowing Kathryn Janeway taught me in this life, that's one lesson I'll never again allow myself to forget.

"Never," I tell her. "I've never once forgotten who you are. I've never once had a day where I don't think about you, either. Not one, B'Elanna. Not one."

Our eyes lock for a second, and then she blinks. "Yeah, well," she says, as the sound of running boots begins to fade at last. "Don't go thinking that motherhood has made me soft, old man. It's not so much that I don't want you to die as I want to be the one to kill you. Let's go."

We see more Section 31 uniforms, but none of them notice or are interested in us. It's clear that they're evacuating. Seven fades in and out as we make our way down through two decks of Borg technology. It's a rough ride and I can see her face creasing with waves of pain every time I look down at her. I wish I could make it a smoother journey, but there's just no time. The shuddering is becoming more and more violent, accompanied now by the over-arching shriek of metal shearing away from metal, as if the outer pieces of the cube are tearing away from the whole.

We reach the right corridor and I fight to keep my footing as the deck ruptures beneath our feet. B'Elanna finds the airlock to the pod and forces it open. Inside there's a small pod, vaguely oblong – about two meters long and barely a meter wide. The outer casing is smooth and featureless apart from a small computer panel and two handholds either side of the locking mechanism. The lid hisses open automatically as we enter the airlock and B'Elanna grabs one of the handles, hauling it fully open.

Seven's lost consciousness completely, her brutalised head falling back over my arm. But when I bend to lie her down in the recess within the pod, her eye opens, wide and wild.

"No," she gasps, struggling weakly, clutching blindly at my arms, at the casing surrounding her. "_No, no, no_-"

"It's all right," I tell her, trying to keep her down. "Seven, it's all right…"

She keeps struggling, too terrified that she's somehow back in her nightmare to listen to me. I'm finding it difficult to keep my feet – the escape pod, of course, is close to the outer edges of the cube, and I know instinctively that we have only minutes, perhaps seconds, before space comes tearing in. But I can't get Seven to settle - she's too terrified and even if she can see, what she's seeing is a man encased in a suit. She can't see me properly, she can't feel me. To her right now I'm just another Section 31 operative, treating her like a machine and using machines to control her.

With one hand I reach up and uncouple my helmet from the suit.

"No!" B'Elanna exclaims. "Chakotay, no!"

Without the helmet the noise is even more deafening. There's a whistling, too, a thinning of the air, and it's clear the cube is losing atmosphere fast. I pull Seven to me, wrapping both arms around her and pressing my cheek to hers so that my lips are near her ear.

"It's all right," I tell her. "I'm here, Seven. It's me, Chakotay. You know you can trust me." I pull back a little and kiss her forehead, careful to avoid the angry red flesh around the incision that took her eye, then her cheek, letting the soft pressure linger. Letting her register it. I'm pretty sure this is the first skin-to-skin human contact she's had for a long, long while. It's easy to forget how important something that simple is. "It's all right. _It's all right_."

I feel her hands come up to my chest, weakly. Her heart rate slows a little. She stops fighting.

"Just sleep," I tell her, as quietly as I can given the building maelstrom around us. "Just lie down and sleep for a while. When you wake up you'll be safe."

I lie her back down again and this time she doesn't fight. B'Elanna closes the lid and the seal hisses into place as I haul my helmet back on. The computer panel blinks into life, stark green code scrolling over the screen.

"We have to put in a destination," B'Elanna realises. "It won't launch without one. What do we do? We can't risk Section 31 finding her again, and anyway, anyone who finds a pod floating in space will claim it as salvage."

B'Elanna's right. Sending Seven out into the void without someone we trust there to find her makes her no more safe than she is right now on this disintegrating cube.

Then a memory hits me. Kathryn, standing in front of me with my t-shirt tied up around her waist and her hands on her hips, wearing that battered leather jacket and biting her lip as I ask her how we can help. I almost laugh as I step forward and start keying in coordinates.

"What's there?" B'Elanna asks, watching as I finish inputting the sequence.

"Mike Ayala," I tell her.

"What? But-" The panel accepts its destination, the code switching from green to red, and as it does so the deck around us begins to give way.

The airlock's outer wall splits with a sound so loud it almost seems as if the universe itself is tearing apart. The pod slides sideways, boosters on the verge of lighting up, and I realise it's now our only hope for survival. I grab B'Elanna and push her in front of me, clamping my hands over hers and wrapping them around one of the pod's handholds so she knows what I want her to do. I lift one hand just long enough to activate my emergency beacon and in the next split-second the pod is moving, shooting out of the ripped hull at a speed that blurs everything around us. I cling around B'Elanna, aware that if we hold on to this thing too long it'll jump to subspace and the force will rip us apart. On the other hand if we don't hold on for long enough we'll be lost amid the debris of the failing cube.

I count ten seconds in my head and it feels like an eternity. Then I wrench B'Elanna away and we tumble into nothing. A white flash somewhere ahead of us signals Seven's passage beyond normal space and then there's just us and a mess of disintegrating metal, spinning out into forever. I hold fast to B'Elanna, closing my eyes, and the only regret I have is that I'd rather it was just me here, right now. I'd rather be alone out here. I'd rather B'Elanna was somewhere else, somewhere so far away that she'd never found out about any of this, because then at least I'd die knowing that one of the women I love is still safe.

This thought barely has time to fade away before I feel the buzzing hum of a transporter beam. It pulses in my gut, like a prayer I hadn't realised I'd made.

[TBC]


	21. Chapter 21

We materialise on the bridge of the _Dieglian_ just as Tom's raising the shields and cloak. He gets up from the ship's controls and crosses the space between us in two long strides, crushing B'Elanna to him as soon as I let her go. I step away and drag my helmet off, gaze fixed on the viewscreen.

In front of us the cube is still teetering on the edge of full death, but its mutilated limbs have already fractured. The space before us looks like the aftermath of a destroyed planet, rings of debris radiating out in the wake of the successive shockwaves. I can see the 'fleet shuttles that have survived exiting what's left of the Borg ship as the Section 31 evacuation continues, and I know instinctively that for an operation of this size there will be more bodies than room to accommodate them.

I rip off the rest of my suit as I head for helm and slide into Tom's seat. I scan for lifesigns and there are at least a hundred still left on the cube. I look up again as fierce light blooms and an explosion big enough to pulverise most ships takes out one ripped wing.

"Has this ship got a brig?"

"Only a small one," Tom says, as he and B'Elanna move to stand at my shoulder. "Why? What are you thinking?"

I stand up, making way for the _Dieglian_'s true pilot. "We need to start saving lives."

"_What_?" B'Elanna's voice explodes out of her with as much force as one of the shockwaves out there. "Save _them_? After everything they've done? To Seven? To _Kathryn_? You're out of your mind!"

I spin to face her. "We have to mitigate this. Do you understand? If you and Tom don't want to be on the run for the rest of your damn lives, we have to mitigate this. Saving lives is a start. Seal off one of the decks – shut it down, cut all power except emergency life support. Forcefields at every turbodoor and Jeffries tube entrance – and any other nook or cranny they might be able to break through. Then we start beaming them in, as many as we can before that thing loses structural integrity entirely."

B'Elanna shakes her head, still incensed, but Tom speaks up.

"He's right, B'E. We have to."

"Make it happen. Do it now," I tell her.

Another explosion lights up our viewscreen and in the time it takes me to turn away from the glare, B'Elanna has moved to one of the _Dieglian_'s engineering consoles. She keys in commands and in less than a minute she's done what I asked.

"Deck nine," she says. "I've added Benzodiazepine to the air supply. Should knock them out for a while, at least."

Tom starts beaming over whatever Section 31 personnel he can. He grabs them in batches of ten, timing each transport between the shockwaves so he can raise the _Dieglian_'s shields to weather each storm as the cube continues to break up. The force of the Borg ship's death throes shakes us and rattles the _Dieglian_'s bones, but she holds firm.

"That's it!" Tom exclaims, eventually. "No more lifesigns over there. They're either here or in their own shuttles."

"Then let's get out of here before she blows completely."

"Where to?"

I lean over his shoulder and key in the same coordinates I used in Seven's escape pod. Tom nods and pushes us into low warp. Within seconds the mess behind us has vanished, replaced by the whirl of passing stars.

I suck in what feels like my first breath in hours and step back. I can't really take in everything that's happened. I can't process it. Yet we're going to have to formulate a plan. We're going to have to work out where to take Seven, for a start. She's going to need treatment and what will probably be a long convalescence, somewhere no one will find her or even think to look for her. She can't stay aboard my ship, it's too small and we have virtually no medical supplies. I wonder what Kathryn's plan was. She must have had one, knowing that she wasn't going to get out to help Seven herself…

Kathryn.

_Kathryn…_

I shut my eyes and think of her, and the instant memory that blooms before me is the image of that tiny figure spiralling away into eternity, but I push that away. That's not how I want to remember her – helpless and lost – when that wasn't ever, even during her very worst days, how she was in life. Instead I go back to the last chance I ever had to hold her, the chance I should have used to pull her against me and once and for all leave her in absolutely no doubt of what she meant to me. That moment in the cargo bay when she looked at me with_ that _smile, the same bright, unfettered gesture that turned me inside out with hope more than once during our days on _Voyager_.

The pain hits me like a sledgehammer, smashing me full in the chest with such tangible physicality that I suck in a breath and struggle not to bend double over the wound. I'm fighting the urge to lash out, to smash something in an act that may help transfer some of this feeling into pain of another, fixable sort, when Tom speaks.

"Approaching the coordinates. Sensors are showing a ship – it's small…"

I swallow hard, shoving it all down deep, somewhere it can't overwhelm me. There'll be time for grief later. Plenty of time. The rest of my life.

"That's my ship," I say. "Ayala's at the helm."

Tom nods. "Hailing," he says, and then, a moment later, "He's responding. Audio only."

That's not unusual – just another part of our ship that needs repair. "Mike?"

"_Chakotay? Holy smoke – is that you? Where _are_ you?"_

"I'll explain later," I tell him. "Everything all right?"

"_Fine_," Mike says. "_I've got someone here I think you're going to want to see."_

I rub a hand over my face, relieved – I was almost afraid to ask whether Seven had made it or not.

"Ayala – it's Tom Paris here," says Tom. "We can't beam you through the cloak and I don't want to drop it."

"_Fair enough. Got a suggestion?"_

"If you're up for some fancy flying, I think you can make it into one of the cargo bays."

"_Hang the lights out for me, Paris_," Ayala drawls. _"Let me show you a thing or two."_

Tom grins as he opens the cargo bay doors and clears the cloak. Together the three of us watch the little ship come about and edge closer.

B'Elanna rests a hand on her husband's shoulder. "Let me take helm. You should go with Chakotay. Seven's going to need your medical training."

"The EMH can be there," Tom tells her. "He's mobile-emitter equipped and will be able to deal with whatever injuries she has far better than I can."

"No.." B'Elanna flicks me a look as she says, "I think she's had enough of machines for one lifetime. She'll need you. You'll understand when you see her. They treated her like just another computer component, Tom. The machine they had her connected to – she was wasting away."

Tom and I don't talk much on the way to the cargo bay. I'm too preoccupied with trying to figure out what we're going to do next. We walk in to find most of the space taken up by my ship – Ayala's done a good job of parking her fair and square in the middle of what's turned out to be an even tighter space than I remember. The hatch opens as we approach and Mike appears a minute later, boots clanging on the ramp. Someone else follows him down and for a split second I'm astonished that Seven has managed to recover so quickly.

Then she steps out from the ship's shadow and my universe turns inside out.

It's not Seven.

It's Kathryn.

It's _Kathryn Janeway_… alive… here – _now_.

She stops at the bottom of the ramp, hands loose at her sides, watching me. There's a light in her eyes and her lips are curled into a slight smile. I stare at her, unable to breathe, unable to move. As I watch she glances down at herself and waves her hands slightly to indicate what she's wearing.

"I borrowed another of your shirts," she says. "Ayala seemed to think you wouldn't mind."

[TBC]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The throwing KJ-into-space thing again came out of nowhere, and I was then saved by MissyHissy3, who first said 'Can't they take an extra spacesuit for Seven?' and then, when I had no idea how or if I was going to save Janeway, 'Can't she have the bit of the suit with the oxygen?' Best beta ever.


	22. Chapter 22

Chakotay stares at me and for a moment I think he's not going to move at all. Then he does. He strides straight towards me and without saying a word, pulls me against him. With one arm around my waist and one hand against my cheek, he kisses me with a power that instantly makes my knees give way. I hold on to him and kiss back. My god, do I kiss back.

"Umm – Seven's up here," I hear Ayala tell Tom. "You'd better check her out before we move her." Then there's the sound of their boots clanging back up the metal ramp as they beat a swift retreat to leave us alone.

Not that it'd make much difference, to be honest. We could have the entire crew of _Voyager_ as an audience and I don't think we'd be able to stop ourselves right now. Chakotay pauses and leans back, still holding me flush against him. He rubs the thumb of the hand that rests against my face over my cheekbone and lets his eyes rove over my face.

"How?" he asks, hoarsely. "_How?_"

I laugh a little when I try to answer and realise I'm out of breath. "I had the half of the spare suit that had the oxygen tank. And then Ayala-"

Chakotay shakes his head a little. "I don't care. _I don't care…_" He kisses me again, hard, deep, as if he's trying to make up for all the years that this was missing between us. "Don't ever do that again," he whispers, between kisses. "Don't you ever leave me again."

Eventually the storm of our reunion subsides. We stand, tangled against each other. He's still stroking his fingers gently against my face, as if he can't believe I'm here. I'm not sure I really believe it myself, especially given how close I came to not making it. But that tale can wait for telling until later. Right now I'd be content to stay this way forever – looking up into those dark eyes of his without, finally, having to hide what it does to me to see them.

But then I hear movement up in the ship and everything else pours back in around me. I can't stop my eyes filling with tears.

"Thank you for getting Seven out of there," I whisper, feeling Chakotay wipe away my tears as they slide down my face. "What they did to her – it was a hundred times worse than I thought."

Chakotay exhales and leans in to rest his lips against my forehead. When he speaks we're still so close that I can feel the rumble of it through his ribcage. "She must have fought back," he says, quietly. "I guess they wanted her weak enough that she couldn't save herself."

"I should have gotten here sooner," I say. "I should have found her sooner, I should have-"

Chakotay moves again, kissing me into silence. "We've got her now. She'll be all right. You did everything you could – too much. My god, Kathryn, when I think-"

"Don't," I say, in a whisper, lifting myself on tiptoe so that I can kiss him. "Don't…"

We're busy making each other lose our breath again when B'Elanna's voice hails over the ship's tannoy.

"_Chakotay – you'd better get up here."_

We leave Tom and Ayala with Seven and head for the bridge. En route Chakotay's hand keeps finding mine, as if to reassure himself that I really am there. There's a precarious moment in the Turbolift when, despite the larger situation, we could both happily throw caution to the wind and descend into what Starfleet would consider to be distinctly inappropriate behaviour. We both know how lucky we are, and I don't think either of us is inclined to throw this chance away. We're both alive, and somehow, despite literally astronomical odds, the universe has allowed us to gravitate within reach of each other again. What fools we would be not to hold on to every second we have together now.

When we reach the _Dieglian_'s bridge, it is to find B'Elanna at the helm. She looks up as we come in, her face a picture of shock as she sees me beside Chakotay.

"_Kathryn?_" she gets up and surprises me with a fierce hug of her own. "I thought you were dead," she says, her voice breaking. "I made Chakotay-"

"It's all right," I tell her, hugging back. "I'm all right."

Chakotay has moved to stand in front of the viewscreen. On it is the image of a Galaxy-class vessel moving toward us at high warp.

"I picked it up on long-range sensors a few minutes ago," B'Elanna explains, letting me go. "It's headed right for us. It'll be here in less than ten minutes."

"Our cloak's still up though?" Chakotay asks, looking down at the helm console. "It hasn't been damaged somehow? There was a lot of debris from the cube."

"No," B'Elanna says, "I ran a diagnostic to be sure. They can't see us. But they might have seen your ship."

"That's true," I agree. "Mike was here waiting for a while. Long enough that, when nothing came through at the sub-space coordinates I'd given him, he conducted a series of long-range scans. That's how he found me. He picked up on the explosions from the cube, too."

Chakotay frowns. "If Mike picked those up even with our old scanners, then ships ten light years from here must have seen them too," he says. "Could just be on its way to investigate that."

"With special orders to cross the quarantine line?" I point out. "Not even the flagship herself would do that without a direct countermand."

B'Elanna takes the helm again. "It's not the _Enterprise_," she says, a moment or two later. "It's the _Venture_. And they're hailing us on a full spectrum frequency."

Chakotay and I look at each other. They know we're here somewhere, or they at least suspect it. "Don't answer it," I tell B'Elanna. "If they can't see us, they'll think we've moved on."

"They're continuing to hail," B'Elanna says. "I don't think they're going to give-"

The end of her sentence is cut off as a voice speaks into the recycled air of the _Dieglian_'s bridge. It's a direct broadcast, also on full-spectrum frequency. The _Venture_ is clearly determined to be heard.

"_This is Lieutenant Commander Harry Kim of the _USS Venture_ to any cloaked vessel that may be in need of assistance. Please respond."_

"Harry!" B'Elanna exclaims, staring up at the viewscreen.

"What's he doing on the _Venture_?" I ask.

B'Elanna shakes her head. "I don't know, but-"

"_This is Lieutenant Command Harry Kim of the _USS Venture_. We are currently on a training exercise and have been informed that you are on a test flight. We are here to give assistance should you require it. Please respond."_

I look at Chakotay. "That's Harry telling us he's here to help," he says.

I bite my lip. "Sounds that way."

"If the _Venture _knows the _Dieglian_'s out here somewhere and has been told we're on a test flight, that's the beginnings of a cover story," Chakotay points out. "It has to have come from Admiral Paris. Didn't B'Elanna say he was behind you all the way? He's doing what he can to help."

B'Elanna turns to look at us both. "We have to trust him. We_ know_ we can trust him. It's _Harry_."

I do trust him. I do. But it's not just myself I'm putting into that trust.

Chakotay moves towards me, speaking softly. "We need all the help we can get, Kathryn. If it turns out to be something else, we'll make a run for it."

He's right. I nod. "All right. Chakotay – I don't think you and I should be visible for this." I nod my head to the recess that forms the bridge's engineering ops. We'll be able to see everything that happens, but the _Venture_won't be able to see us. Chakotay nods and follows me as I say, "Open a channel, B'Elanna. Answer their hail."

B'Elanna flicks her fingers across the console and Harry Kim appears on the screen. He's in command red and for a moment it looks distinctly wrong. I will forever think of him in the gold he wore aboard _Voyager_.

Harry smiles slightly, though it's reserved. To my relief I can see that the bridge of the _Venture _is almost empty. He's cleared the deck for this exchange.

"_So you are out here,_ Dieglian," he says. "_Glad we managed to track you down. We were worried you might have run into some sort of trouble – the engineers say parts of your operation are still a little glitchy_."

There's an entire ocean between what he's saying and what he means. Harry's being careful, and it occurs to me that everything he does and says – this exchange included - is probably being logged.

"You're not wrong there, _Venture_," B'Elanna replies. "But we're working through the worst of them."

Kim nods and then says, "_The admiralty also wanted me to warn you that this area of space is under judicial investigation. I don't know the details, but it seems it's part of a wider issue that Starfleet has been trying to deal with. It ties into these readings we've been picking up from inside the quarantine zone. It looks almost as if a ship has been destroyed_."

I see the chance he's giving us, and B'Elanna does too. "We picked up on those readings too, _Venture_. In fact, that's why we crossed the quarantine line – our scans indicated lifesigns in distress. We picked up around 100 souls."

Harry nods. "_Sounds as if you should be commended on your quick thinking. And it also seems to me that would make things a little crowded over there, _Dieglian."

"Just a bit."

"_Well then, perhaps the _Venture _should take custody? We'll see they receive the proper treatment – and reach the proper authorities. That should allow you to continue your test flight unhindered_."

B'Elanna nods. "Sounds like a plan, _Venture_. Thank you."

"_No problem. I hope the rest of the flight goes well. The admiralty tells me you've got another week or so out here? Should be more than enough time to make your circuit and back – barring any further glitches_."

I blink, processing Harry's words. Circuit? What does he mean? The _Dieglian_ isn't even supposed to be out here at all. As B'Elanna and he trade instructions on the transfer of the prisoners, I watch Kim lean forward and key a quick message into the console in front of him. A second later a panel blinks on our corresponding console – whatever he's sent, it's been received.

"_All right, _Dieglian," Harry says, once they've sorted out the logistics. "_Good talking to you, but we need to move things along. I was given temporary command of the _Venture_ as part of my captaincy training module just this morning. It was a bit of a surprise, I can tell you. Now my time is almost up_."

"I'd say you're doing a great job, Lieutenant Commander," B'Elanna tells him. "We're grateful for your help."

"_Any time_," he says, and I can tell he means it. "Venture _out_."

Chakotay and B'Elanna deal with the transfer of the prisoners, organising multiple site-to-site transfers until we're clear of Section 31 personnel. Meanwhile, I bring up the message Harry sent over.

It's brief and to the point, as all communiqués from Tuvok tend to be.

[TBC]


	23. Chapter 23

Tuvok is heading to a Vulcan retreat so closed off from the rest of the universe that its existence is not even common knowledge on Vulcan itself. It's the perfect place to take Seven, and Kathryn's relief at this turn of events is palpable. The journey to rendezvous with _Voyager_'s former head of security will take two days. It's two days that Seven will spend sedated in sickbay as Tom deals with the worst of her malnutrition. It goes without question that Kathryn is along for the ride so that she can see Seven to safety, and that means I am too. Ayala doesn't seem to have a problem with it, even though it means we'll miss the collection deadline on at least two pick-ups.

Once we're under way I corner B'Elanna and we talk. It's long and painful but nevertheless cathartic. When we're done she lets me wrap my arms around her and I hear as well as feel the exhalation that rolls against my chest. It's forgiveness, if not complete understanding, and I can tell that it makes us both happy.

Later still, I look for Kathryn and find her where I left her hours earlier, still at Seven's bedside. She's holding the younger woman's hand, though it's unlikely Seven even knows she's there. The patient is responding well to Tom's treatment. In fact, at the moment, even despite her injuries, she's looking more rested than Kathryn. After all, neither of us has slept since before our arrival at Krallis Prime, and in between, she's stared death in the face and survived.

"Hey," I say softly, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder. "Come on. You should get some sleep. And I mean proper sleep, in a proper bed, not on a sickbay gurney. Seven's fine. You need to take care of yourself for a while now."

I'm expecting her to protest, but instead she looks up at me with a pale smile and then nods. She really is exhausted. Kathryn gets to her feet and I loop my arm around her, partly as support, partly just because she's here and I can. It still feels surreal to me that the tsunami of grief that towered over me just hours ago has somehow broken over me as joy instead of devastation.

We walk to the crew decks, because it's not as if this ship doesn't have enough accommodation for us to enjoy the relative luxury of spacious beds and a replicator. I'm not expecting anything to happen between us tonight, but it's not hard to make the decision that if she asks me to sleep beside her – just sleep – then I will.

But when we reach one of the empty rooms she slips from beneath my arm and stands in the doorway with a frown on her face. Kathryn shakes her head and murmurs, "This isn't right."

A flutter of unease starts up in my chest and I wonder for a second whether she's rethinking _us_ – because I have quickly fallen into the notion that there _is _an us, a very promising us, and all we need is time. But if that isn't the case-

Then she turns to look up at me and says, very quietly, "Take me somewhere that's yours."

Everything that has occurred between and around us since the moment she walked into that bar has happened at a speed faster than light, but now time stretches and quiets. When we reach my room aboard my little tin ship it becomes clear that though both of us need sleep, we need something else even more. We move slowly because we are both bone tired but also because, when I lay her out naked beneath me on my tiny bunk, I find I want the universe to stop entirely. I want to take forever over this and when her hands drift, feather light and at a glacier's pace, down my back, I can tell Kathryn feels the same. We move slowly, silently, softly, and I pour everything I have into making sure she feels every minute movement. I linger over every touch, every kiss, every stroke, so that by the time she stifles her last shuddering moan by turning her head and sucking my thumb into her mouth, we have replaced every nightmare second of our preceding reunion with a memory of such magnitude that nothing else we will remember can possibly matter.

[TBC]


	24. Chapter 24

I wake a long time later, warm and with a delicious ache in parts of me that haven't ached in a long time. I'm curled beneath Chakotay's blanket. One of his arms is around my midriff, pulling my back against his front. I lie still for a moment and listen to his breathing, which is brushing warmth against my neck with each strong, steady exhalation. I realise that, here, now, in the semi-darkness, I'm smiling to myself like a fool.

He wakes the second I try to stretch my legs. I turn my head slightly to look at him.

"Hey," he whispers.

"Hey," I whisper back.

Chakotay doesn't seem inclined to let me go. Instead he leans forward and kisses my shoulder, letting his lips linger there as his hand begins to stroke small patterns on my belly.

I abandon the idea of getting up, just for a little while.

Seven starts to improve during the two days of our journey. Tom carries out a series of full-body scans to determine whether she has deeper injuries. These he will pass over to the Vulcan team that Tuvok has rallied to help her once we arrive. I don't know if they'll be able to replace her missing eye. I hope so. But I'm still more worried about her psychological state. I am sure Tuvok will be able to help her in this regard, probably to a great extent. But I worry that building her mental strength won't be enough, and I fear that the customary Vulcan emotional detachment is not going to be what she needs. She will need someone who can show her that they care.

I think she's going to need _me_.

This brings up a question that begins to clamour for attention in my head with increasing regularity the closer we get to our destination. It is this quandary that I am pondering over a mug of coffee in the _Dieglian_'s mess hall when Chakotay comes in.

"Here you are," he says. "We're entering Vulcan space. We'll reach the coordinates Tuvok gave us in six hours."

I smile up at him. "That's good news."

He smiles back. "Everything all right?"

"Yes. At least-" I break off and he waits for me to continue. I sigh, and say, "I think perhaps we should talk, don't you?"

Chakotay nods. "All right. Give me a minute."

I look out at the stars as he goes to the replicator and collects a mug of green tea and then settles himself in the chair beside me. I take a breath and turn to look at him, because there's one thing I need to make very clear right up front.

"I love you."

He smiles. "And I love you."

"I don't-" I have to pause for a second, because I hadn't anticipated my heart's reaction to hearing him actually say the words. I take another breath and try again. "I don't know what happens next, Chakotay. To Seven. To me. To _us_. I've been in Starfleet my entire adult life. There have been times when I haven't even been sure where the uniform ends and I begin, and now…" I trail off, and he reaches out to take my hand, rubbing his thumb in circles over my knuckle. "I don't know how we do this," I go on, quietly. "I don't know how this is going to work. What do we do, Chakotay? There's no room for me on your ship. Even if there was, I don't think I can just leave with you once we reach Tuvok's location. Seven's going to need me. And if what Harry was saying is right – that the Fleet are investigating Section 31 – then Owen will need my testimony. Maybe I should just go back to Earth anyway, face whatever music confronts my actions…"

His hand tightens over mine, and he doesn't need to say anything for me to know what he thinks of that idea.

"I've been thinking about this too," he says, a moment later, looking out at the universe as we pass through it. "I wish I could say that Mike and I could just start our business again in this region of space, but it's not as easy as that. We have creditors, contracts – obligations we can't just sever."

I remember what he told me, in those first hours that I was aboard his ship. That he and Ayala had struggled for what they had. I could tell then that he was proud of it – both of their ship and the life they had carved out for themselves in the harsh starscape in which we dwell. I understand that, and if it were mine, I wouldn't want to give it up either, especially not to step blindly into an uncertain future with no home or way of making a living. He and I are too old and too wise to imagine that love conquers all. It's just what makes the trying worthwhile.

Chakotay lets go of my hand and lifts his to my face instead, brushing back my hair with his fingers. "And you're right. With the best will in the world, it's cramped enough with just Mike and me - we can't have another person living on that ship."

My heart is thumping painfully, but I try to make light of it. "Especially an ex-Admiral who's used to giving orders and hates to be idle…"

He laughs. "There is that, yes."

I nod, turning to look out at the stars as he drops his hand, blinking back tears because I can't see a way out of this that doesn't include a separation, and I don't know how I'm going to bear it. I have felt more whole in the past 48 hours than in the fifteen years preceding them. I already know that I never want to lie down in a bed again without having him there with me.

"You're going to stay with Tuvok and Seven?" Chakotay asks, softly.

"If I can," I say, equally quietly. "If the Vulcans will allow it."

Chakotay reaches out and folds me against him, pressing his lips into my hair. "Here's the thing, Kathryn. It's about time Mike got to be a Captain. So if you're going to stay, I'll stay too – at least for a while. Two months, say. Let's see how things go – how Seven's doing then, what the situation is back on Earth – and, frankly, how we're doing as a couple. That'll give Mike a chance to see whether he can run things alone, too. After that, we'll revisit the question. Maybe Mike will want to buy me out. If he does, well, that'll give me somewhere to start. Maybe it'll give _us_ somewhere to start. If not – we'll think of something else. Together."

Somewhere in the middle of all this I pull away so that I can turn to face him. "I can't ask you to give up your ship. Not for me. Not again."

Chakotay smiles. "I'm not giving anything up," he says. "I'm gaining something that has been missing from my life for at least five years."

I reach out and trace my fingers over his tattoo, down his cheek to his lips. I can feel tears on my face but I don't bother to hide them. "How did we find each other again?" I ask him, as his hands find their way to my hips and pull me closer, until I'm straddling his lap.

He wraps his arms around me and pulls me down to him. Chakotay kisses my forehead, my cheek, my lips. "I have no idea," he murmurs. "I'm still trying to work out how we lost each other in the first place."

"Let's not do that again," I whisper, against his mouth.

[TBC]


	25. Chapter 25

**Epilogue**

**Two Months Later**

I'm early, so I'm already sitting at the bar with a drink when Ayala arrives. He claps me on the back in greeting and then drags a stool up beside mine.

"Nice place," he observes, of the bar. It's certainly a notch above some of the dives we've spent time in over the past five years.

"Thought it was about time I went up in the world," I say. "So, how've you been?"

"Pretty good. Busy – you?" he glances around. "No Kathryn?"

"She had to find a secure terminal," I tell him. "She'll be here once she's done."

"Oh?" Mike says. "She talking to Earth? How's all that going?"

I scrub my thumbnail through the condensation on my glass. "They want her to go back. Admiral Paris has asked her to be part of the investigation. I think, if he had his way, she'd have had her rank reinstated already. He keeps bringing up that they'll need a high-ranking officer to take command of the _Dieglian_ once it's ready to go out."

Mike nods. "And… what does Kathryn want?"

That's not an easy question to answer, and I take a mouthful of my drink before I do. "I think part of her wants to go back. A _big _part of her. She's been Starfleet her whole life. She believes in what it stands for, and she was born to stand on the bridge of a starship. That's not something you let go of easily."

"But?"

I shrug. "But trusting them again? That's a hard ask. Especially when she knows I never will again."

Ayala looks at me with one eyebrow raised. "Bit of a fundamental issue, there."

I shrug. "We're working through it. The biggest problem is that she's bored. Kathryn's just not used to standing still. When we first got to the retreat we were both exhausted, but two weeks in and it was like living with a jumping bean. And that's before she's even _had_ coffee. I swear Mike, I had no idea she had so much energy – I guess on _Voyager_ we were both always busy so I didn't take it in. The only time she's really still is when she sleeps."

Mike laughs. "And Seven?"

"She's all right. Getting there. There's still a long way to go. Kathryn's spending a lot of time with her. Tuvok, too. Credit to the Vulcans, they've done everything they can. Icheb and the Doctor have both been in touch. Icheb's trying to plan a trip out to see her."

"Are they going to be able to do something about her eye?"

"They hope so. They're going to try to remove the cortical implant next week. That'll be the turning point."

He nods, his face sober. "I think about her a lot. You let me know how it goes."

"I will."

"You didn't answer my first question," he adds. "How are _you_ doing?"

"Good."

Mike looks at me. "Just 'good_'_?"

I look down at my drink with a smile. "What were you hoping for?"

"Are you kidding me? You're finally – _finally_ – with the woman I personally witnessed you spend a decade trying not to be completely head over heels for. Hell, yes, I want to know it's better than good! If it's not working for you two, what hope is there for the rest of us?"

I can't help but laugh at his vehemence. "All right, _all right_. Yes, it _is _better than good." I shrug, not really wanting to talk about this in a bar full of people. Not really wanting to talk about it at all, if I'm honest. "We're getting to know each other again, and there are things about each other that we never knew in the first place. But we… fit. Then again, we always did. That was half the problem on _Voyager_ – I think even then we were both pretty sure that we would. Made not being able to try all the harder."

"But?"

"No buts," I tell him. "Or at least, not to do with us. It's everything else. We still don't really know where we're going to go from here." I tip my half-empty glass towards Mike. "Which may be where you can help. How have you found the past two months? Feel like buying out my share of the ship?"

Mike grimaces and flicks a look over to the barkeep to order us more drinks. "Well – that's something we definitely need to talk about."

"Oh?"

Mike pauses as the barman sets our drinks down. He's got a pensive look on his face and suddenly I'm a little anxious about what he's going to say.

"Thing is," he says, "I've kind of… met someone."

I pause with my drink half way to my lips, because out of everything he could have said right then, that was way down the list of things I was expecting. It hit Mike hard when he split up with his wife, Elise. Hit me hard too, to be honest. Just one more thing that was wrong when Voyager finally got back to the Alpha Quadrant. He hasn't even shown the slightest interest in anyone else in all the time we've travelled together.

"You've _met_ someone?"

For some reason he looks a little sheepish. "Yeah. Remember that regular drop off we have, out at the colony on Cestus IV? That little Bajoran farming community? Well, Praja's got a homestead there. The last few drops I've made, we've talked, you know? And then… well, then we more than talked."

"I'm happy for you, Mike," I say, and I genuinely am, although I'm trying to imagine out how it's going to work. "So what's the plan? She's going to sell up?"

He looks up at me. "No, actually she's asked me to go and live there. And… I'd like to give it a try. Apart from anything else, I'm tired of never being anywhere long enough to see my boys properly. With a proper base they could come and stay. I'd be able to spend decent time with them. Seeing you and Kathryn make a go of it, it's made me think. Life's too short not to take the chances we're given, right? And I like the idea of being a farmer. Truth is, I think I've been in space too long. I like the idea of having fresh air on my face. And Praja – well, you don't meet someone like her every day."

I suddenly realise just what it is he's about to say.

"So the thing is, I wondered if you wanted the ship?" Mike asks. "You don't even have to buy me out if you don't want to, not immediately. But it'd help me and Praja out. I've got bookings through the next six months and I can't just dump them and run." He raises his eyebrows and shrugs. "It's a really tight schedule, actually. Gonna keep whoever's running it plenty busy. Moving, moving, moving, every day a different star system – that kind of thing. Know anyone who might find that a good challenge, at least for a while?"

At that moment, the door opens behind us. I look up as Kathryn walks in through a bright shaft of light. She looks around the bar and when she sees me, her face lights up with a smile that I swear outdoes the halo of sun she's standing in. She's made for better things than sharing the command of a delivery skiff. Much better things. But it's being among the stars that she loves, and with our own ship we could do anything, go anywhere. Together.

"You know what?" I say to Mike. "I think I might."

[END]


End file.
